The CHARIOTEER

The CHARIOTEER
An Annual Review of Modern Greek Culture
NUMBER 19
1977
ODYSSEUS ELYTIS
AND MODERN GREEK POETRY
Essay
BEASTS AND KARANGIOZIS
Greek Shadow Puppet Play
by Markos Xanthos
THE ART OF GEORGE CONSTANT
PAINTINGS
GEORGIOS-ALEXANDROS MANGAKIS
MY GREECE Essay
SHORT STORIES
REVIEW OF BOOKS
Published by
Parnassos, Greek Cultural Society of New York
$4.00
AWARDED THE ACADEMY OF ATHENS POETRY PRIZE FOR 1977
ANTQNH~ ~EKABAAAE~
APMOI KAPABIA AITPA
01
EKLlO~EI~
T.QN <1>1/\.QN
A9HNA 1976
"One of the best living poets in the Greek lan~age anywhere ...
Careful, sensitive, sagacious, a man of feelings."
PROF. BYRON RAiz1s in the National Herald
"How, in the midst of an English-speaking, foreign world, in a foreign
atmosphere, in a foreign land, could this almighty memory have been
preserved and transformed into a poetry so exquisite, so powerful, so
masculine."
TATIANA STAVROU , novelist
"In recent years I have scarcely read poems with so much love for the
language-more so mastery than love, ... the meaning that sets language
into its full function, as life, memory, hoarding up, existence.... The use
of language in your poems may indeed be called a lesson on the function
of poetry."
ELENI VAKALO, poetess
"The collection Armoi, Karavia, Lytra is a 'perpendicular cut into a
time of crisis' of our civilization and of all the values it has nurtured until
DEMITRIS KAKAVELAKIS, poet and critic
today."
"A new poetic book by the distinguished poet and thinker. Closely
woven Greek verse, full of power, manly vigor, and the light of love and
melancholy: a glorification of the Greek word."
CosTAS TsiROPOULOS in Efthyni magazine
Available from
THE CHARIOTEER
Box 2928, Grand Central Station, New York, NY 10017
94 pages.
$5.00
THE CHARIOTEER
AN ANNUAL REVIEW OF MODERN GREEK CULTURE
Published by Parnassos, Greek Cultural Society of New York
NUMBER
1977
19
EDITORIAL STAFF
Executive Editors
Andonis Decavalles
Despoina Spanos Ikaris
Managing Editor Katherine Hortis
Editor in Greece Kimon Friar
Book Review Editor
George Thaniel
Business Manager James W. Manousos
THE CHARIOTEER is published by PARNASSOS, GREEK CULTURAL SOCIETY
OF NEW YORK, a non-profit organization under the laws of the State of New
York. Editorial and subscription address: Box 2928, Grand Central Station, New
York, NY 10017. Two-number subscription $8; three-number subscription $10.
Copyright 1977 by Parnassos. All rights reserved. Printed in U.S.A. by Athens
Printing Company, New York, NY 10001.-THE CHARIOTEER solicits essays
on and English translations from works of modern Greek writers. Translations should
be accompanied by a copy of the original Greek text. Manuscripts will not be returned unless accompanied by stamped self-addressed envelopes. No responsibility
can be assumed for theft, loss or damage.
For their generous contribution toward the publication of this
issue Parnassos is particularly grateful to:
Pierre Deguise
Panos B. Georgopulo
Dr. and Mrs. Mortimer Proctor
PARNASSOS EXECUTIVE COUNCIL
President Henry Calcanes
Vice President Eleni Austlid
Treasurer
Mary Georghiou
Secretary Catherine George
Drosoula Lytra
Cultural Chairperson
Social Chairperson
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Membership Chairperson
Charioteer Chairperson
Board of Directors
Dawn Spiropoulos
James W. Manousos
Alexandria Christopher
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Sophia V ardas
The staff of The Charioteer are members of Parnassos who donate their
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aims of this publication. Your contribution is tax-deductible.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
EDITORIAL DESPOINA SPANOS !KARIS
4
ODYSSEUS ELYTIS AND MODERN GREEK POETRY
Essay MORTON P. LEVITT
Some Poems by Odysseus Elytis
8
THE ALEXANDER PLAY IN GREEK SHADOW
PUPPET THEATRE
Essay LINDA MYRSIADES
THE SEVEN BEASTS AND KARANGIOZIS
BY MARKOS XANTHOS
18
20
The Art of GEORGE CONSTANT: Contradictions Resolved 50
Essay DESPOINA SPANOS !KARIS
Paintings by George Constant
MY GREECE Essay
BY GEORGIOS-ALEXANDROS MANGAKIS
65
ABOUT GEORGE IOANNOU
Essay THOMAS Douus
Short Stories by George Ioannou
The Fleas
Lazarina
82
WESTMINSTER Short Story
BY GEORGE THEOTOKAS
88
REVIEW OF BOOKS
95
EDITORIAL
The quality of pleasure is all the keener when it comes with
surprise. The truth of this was made vivid to us last August when,
during an unexpected journey to Greece, we received an unexpected invitation from the Ministry of Culture to participate,
on the islands of Lesbos and Chios, in The Third International
Symposium of The Aegean. As the scholars, writers and artists
from various parts of Greece, Europe and America, who were
gathered together, all too briefly, will remember, the sojourn was
a blend of delights for body, mind and spirit - a symposium
where Socrates would not have yawned.
Our hosts spared no means to make us welcome, and their
philosophy was in the concern for our happiness which the people
of the islands extended in many particular ways. The particularity of their attention brought us up sharply to a fact often
overlooked by social historians. The marks of a high civilization
are not so much in the well-stocked museums of capital cities nor
in the air-conditioned palaces of merchant princes, as in the
everyday manners of the common man busy at his everyday tasks
and joys. Civilization lives, not in the sweep of grand boulevards
and monumental plazas, but always, ever, in the minutiae of a
momentary encounter between one human being and another-in
the gentle curve of the wrist that offers the glass of cool, longedfor water, or in the resonance of a solicitous voice, along a dark
road, saying, "Kali 'spehra"-"Good evening,"-as one stranger
passes another, each a shadow among shadows to the other.
The Greek land always opens her heart to the stranger, and
that heart is the Aegean. As the ship glides between sea and sky,
the all-embracing blue-now green, now violet-imprints itself
upon the memory and creates an environment where the spirit
can return again and again to find solace and refuge, a haven
from worldly pain. The stranger there, especially someone from
a great urban center of the United States, whose sense of self is
besieged by a merciless technology, feels his identity as a human
being reaffirmed in Greece.
The reaffirmation occurs because of the character of Greek
4
Despoina Spanos Ikaris: Editorial
light. Light in Greece is like time and space, an element to be
reckoned with, and the reckoning, even as with time and space,
depends on the measurement of relationships, on degrees of
proximity or distance between one thing and another. Whatever
loneliness, or isolation, or, in the currently popular term, alienation the individual may feel elsewhere, is quickly dissipated by
Greek light. The Englishman in Mangakis' essay, reprinted in
these pages, touched this point when, caught up in the giddy
sunlight of Delos (rightly acknowledged by the ancients as the
birthplace of Apollo), he declared:
Today, I realize the supernational quality of light. I
thought the magic of mysteries was born only in deep
shade, in the dark. But here on this earth, in this lightheadedness from light, I feel that strange creatures are
strolling about. But I am not afraid of them.
The reaffirmation of the self comes about because it is reconciled to the supremacy of the non-self-the "strange creatures,"
the ineluctable presence of the supernatural, "strolling about."
Guided by that light, the individual begins to realize the possibilities of his place, of belonging, as a natural being on this
earth, in the cosmos. For, possibly, nowhere else on earth does
nature assert the principle of the coherence of things, of a belonging born of love of one thing for another, more eloquently.
This principle of coherence is what poetry, more than any other
human effort, seeks to define and express. Thus, the poetry of
the Aegean was the vehicle whereby man first defined his identity
as a human being and perceived the vision of an ideal world,
beyond the human, toward which he could, in human terms,
aspire.
Centuries of foreign oppression have tried to smother the
voice of the Aegean, but it has never been silent. Throughout
history, the body of Greece, which is today, as always, the acritic
bastion of Western civilization, has, at times, succumbed to invading barbarians. The spirit of Greece, though, has endured
victorious because of her poets. Today, in the poetry of writers
like Elytis, the voice of the Aegean is being heard again throughout the world. And yet, Greek poetry is but the iridescence of
6
THE CHARIOT EER
Greek light caught in the spray of Aegean waters. For words
can never hope to reproduce the drama of sublimity that unfolds
around us and within us as we move through the element of
Aegean light, that transmutes solid into vapor and vapor into
solid, now wind, now water, body into spirit and spirit into body.
The Aegean experience continues to impart to the spirit as to
the senses, the conviction that the source of Western civilization
will always be there-as it always has been-wher e earth, sea and
sky are locked in an eternal embrace. The near and distant pastcrumbling marbles, toppled castles, forlorn monasteries-swirled
ceaselessly on a reiterating wind of change, make the present all
the more poignantly alive. There, swaths of realization, sudden
shifts of recognition across the mind, as sun breaking apart a
cloud, reassemble the particles of being into a future based on
new certitudes of ancient truths.
Today, more than ever the Aegean experience needs to be
felt and understood. For throughout the world, a new Zeus reigns
-the God of Celerity-who, first deified by the Americans, commands that as much as possible be done in as brief a time as
possible. Enslaved by this Sysiphean decree, modern man has
lost all hope of escape, either to the past or to the future; for
the high-priests of this new Zeus, the technologists who control
the Western W odd, are continuously converting the present immediately into the future. The more Western civilization is cut
away from its roots in the Aegean experience, the sooner will
man, himself, be converted from organism to mechanism. As
technology cancels the difference between organic and mechanic,
it cancels, too, man's humanity. Because he is a creature of
nature, he becomes obsolete, and by the morality of the new
dispensation, because parts of his human body can be replaced,
he should be. Thus, the human species will be caused to become
extinct, and a new, more efficient breed, non-organic, non-biological, will be produced, not in the wombs of nature, but in the
test-tubes of technology. Thus, by the will of the new Zeus,
mankind is doomed-unless, as in the ancient myth-a Prometheus
comes to our rescue.
These nightmares that pursue mankind in the crowded cities
of the contemporary world, are dissolved by the light of the
Aegean. There, the sojourner can still eavesdrop on the eternal
Despoina Spanos Ikaris: Editorial
7
dialogue among the living things on the face of the earth. They
whisper of secrets yet to be unlocked by the demiurge who sleeps
among those waters and dreams the ancient dream of the future
-of a social contract and a moral order whereby mankind may
be free to claim again its rightful human place in the cosmos.
If that demiurge does not rise in what may well be mankind's
final hour, we will wake some fine morning to discover that
there are no more barbarians, that we, ourselves-driven by technology back into caves-are the barbarians.
DESPOINA SPANOS }KARIS
for Parnassos and the Staff of The Charioteer
ODYSSEUS ELYTIS AND MODERN
GREEK POETRY
An Essay
BY
MoRTON P.
LEVITT
Modern Greek poetry is not known in America, except for the
few staples of Seferis, Cavafis, Kazantzakis and, more recently,
Ritsos. When we speak of Greek poetry, we usually mean the
tragic poets of ancient Athens, our sense of poetic chronology
two and a half millennia askew. Yet there are great riches in
modern Greek poetry, even though it is sometimes uncongenial
to the Western temperament and for a long time has been inaccessible because of the difficulties of the language. Our continuing discovery of this treasure has been made possible by
Kimon Friar, who for three decades-as translator, critic, scholar
and editor has been making the poetry of modern Greece available
to the English-speaking world. Friar has provided a context within which we can understand and appreciate this seemingly alien
temper, and he has resolved with great ingenuity and tact the
persistent problems of language. Kazantzakis rightly believed
that Friar's monumental translation of The Odyssey: A Modern
Sequel would make Kazantzakis known to the West. Appearing
in 1958, the year after the poet's death, that translation did just
that. (The English version has also made the epic more accessible
to many Greeks, since it skillfully avoids the problems of language
and dialect which divide Greece even today.) Modem Greek
Poetry (Simon & Schuster, 1973, $20.00) is an even more massive
accomplishment, encompassing the work of some thirty poets
born before World War I, with a learned introduction and notes,
an invaluable comment on the craft of translation and a body of
verse that much larger nations would be proud to claim as their
own. Modern Greek Poetry is the finest anthology I have ever
encountered. The many other capable translators of the modern
Greek poetry will surely agree that Friar's work is unique. Our
debt to him is large, and will be larger still when the companion
volume, Contemporary Greek Poetry, is published.
Among the poets included in Modern Greek Poetry is Odys8
Odysseus Elytis and Modern Greek Poetry
9
seus Elytis, with Ritsos, the most honored of living Greek writers.
A good selection of his work in the anthology, short poems and
excerpts from longer ones, covers two decades of the poet's career.
As with Gatsos, V rettakos, Engonopoulos and his other contemporaries, this selection enables us to see something of the span
of the Ritsos canon and places him in a broad Greek context.
Now, with the appearance of The Sovereign Sun (Temple University Press, 1974, $10.00), Friar makes possible a nearly complete view of Elytis, from the early lyrics of nature, shaped under
surrealist influence, through the almost political, nationalistic,
even religious works of the war years, to his most recent poems,
experimental in form and in language. This selection shows both
the development of Elytis' major concerns and the consistency of
language, imagery, tone and theme that have characterized his
entire career. Something of the glories of all Modern Greek
poetry is seen in the art of Elytis: highly individualistic, yet striving for universals; rooted in the history, landscape and language
of Greece, yet aiming for union with Western culture, his poetry
reflects in many ways the art of his countrymen throughout this
century.
In past centuries, the Greeks as a people represented to the
world the most worthy aspects of Western civilization. The victories of Salamis and Marathon marked the triumph of freedom
over tyranny, of reason and light over Oriental obfuscation and
darkness, of humanism and individual values over the demands
of the monolithic state. As the history of modern Greece-and
of the West-has amply demonstrated, however, such triumphs,
if they ever took place as painted, were remarkably short-lived.
Yet despite the low state to which Greece fell in the intervening
years, despite its own Orientalism, there remains a sense in which
Greece may continue to stand for our best. "My Greekness,"
Elytis has said, "is for me not a national or local thing. I have
never been a chauvinist in any way. Greece represents for me
certain values and elements which can enrich universal spirits
everywhere. Being Greek, I try to present precisely these values
on a universal level." This view is most evident in the Heroic
and Elegiac Song for the Lost Second Lieutenant of the Albanian
Campaign. Inspired by the Greek resistance to the fascist invasion
of 1940, it offers once more a spiritual model to other besieged
10
THE CHARIOTEER
nations. (The same campaign is said to have encouraged James
Joyce, shortly after the completion of Finnegans Wake, to contemplate writing a modern Greek tragedy.) By other symbols,
less evident perhaps, the Greece of Elytis, so seemingly parochial,
serves as universal model.
The sun is the first, central image of the Greek landscape and
of Elytis' verse. He celebrates "the light in the immaculate sky"
("Helen") and the light within-"the sun's gain in a human
heart" ("Anniversary"), the endlessly burning sky and the darkened islands which dream of the sun. When the young soldier
falls in the Albanian campaign, there are "black centuries around
him . . . And the eternal sun in this way suddenly left the world."
The sun as metaphor reflects on individual Greek lives and on all
Greek history. For Greece is the "native land" of the sun; the
Greeks are
The race that invigorates dreams
The race that sings in the sun's arms ("Ode to Santorini") .
"No matter what lands I roam and love," calls the Sovereign Sun,
"this is the land I'm enamored of." The sun symbol is a great
gift and a great responsibility, handed down from generation
to generation and celebrated by virtually all Greek artists. Its
strength and significance are unique in Elytis (aside from certain
books of Kazantzakis' Odyssey); it is the source of what he calls
his "solar metaphysics." The Sovereign Sun is not the poet's most
important work; yet by "analogy" or "transposition" (the terms
are Elytis' describing the process at the heart of his metaphoric
technique), its significance becomes clear. "If I have chosen to
entitle the selected poems in this book with its name," Friar
writes, "I have done so in the spirit of those Renaissance painters
who in their own titles picked out minor details for emphasis ... ,
and because the sun is the still center around which Elytis' imagination revolves."
This is no simple Apollonian symbol: Elytis is opposed to the
rationalism of the West, hostile to "the clarity of intelligence,
that which the French call/a belle clarte." It is the "mystery of
light" that he seeks to reveal. In the clear, limpid light for which
Greece has so long been noted, we can see great distances; per-
Odysseus Elytis and Modern Greek Poetry
11
spective dissolves, but outlines are sharpened. Colors, emotions
and history grow starker, and the boundaries between the forces
of nature and those of man seem to blur and blend. "Limpidity,"
says Elytis, "is probably the one element which dominates my
poetry at present. ... What I mean by limpidity is that behind a
given thing something different can be seen and behind that still
something else, and so on and so on." He means something more
than metaphor, something less than ambiguity or paradox; its
result is verse, clearly and sharply defined yet powerfully emotional, that appeals to the intellect but even more to the spirit.
The sun is personified because it lives in all aspects of Greek life.
For readers of Elytis' poems, the sun evokes a highly personal
concept of justice and spiritual value, a sense of the perseverance
of tradition and history into the present, the many turnings in the
fate of the Greeks. The absence of the sun in times of injusticeduring foreign occupation or homegrown dictatorship-is a moral
concern:
Well then, tell the sun to find a new road
If it wishes to lose nothing of its pride
Now that its native land has darkened on earth
The Lost Second Lieutenant.
Even when the sun is present, in less hateful times, its obligations
may be burdensome:
The light I carry with me, and love itself I fear
for both of these even I, the sun, must pay most dear
The Sovereign Sun.
Its influence is intensely, even privately felt
( ... I, who without weeping, endured being orphaned
from light, 0 Times, will not forgive.)
"The Other Noah"
Yet its implications are far broader than the individual, broader
even than all of Greece. The symbol of the sun suffuses all,
Greek and non-Greek, those living today and those of prior generations, the irrational as well as the reason-bound; within its
light can be seen, by analogy, the spiritual focus of Elytis' work
and of Greek life as he makes it stand for us all.
12
THE CHARIOTEER
All of nature is similarly transposed in Elytis. In a land where
"every full-grown olive tree I costs an entire family" (The Sovereign Sun), where "Green birds cut through my dreams"
("Drinking the Corinthian Sun") , we are hardly surprised at the
intimate, tense, even dangerous inter-relationship between nature
and man, between the physical landscape and the landscape of
dreams. Man becomes a part of nature-"Lizards glide in the
long grasses of his armpits" ("Body of Summer")-and nature a
part of man-the sun "sniffing the scent" between a young boy's
thighs ("Half Sunken Boats"). The beauty of the landscape, always fragile, potentially threatening, is a constant even in the
love poems and political poems; we seem to be viewing nature,
in early poems and mature poems alike, through the eyes of the
"Child with the Skinned Knee," who sees "The most naked landscapes of which you knewI The most colorful. ... " The persona grows older, his vision altering subtly. The "Sailor Boy of
the Garden" becomes the young second lieutenant, who, as he
falls, "resembles a garden from which the birds have suddenly
flown." Around him, "The air tore as easily as calico." Elytis,
too, grows older, along with his persona. Now, he calls to The
Light Tree, "it's now I need you now that I've even lost my name
I Now when no one mourns the nightingales and all write
poems." Even now, though, he sings still of "Bodies in concord
and boats that sweetly collide" (The Mono gram).
Psalm I of Axion Esti, the long poem which emerges from
World War II and the Civil War and blends the newest of Greek
forms and ideas with the most traditional, is an autobiography of
sorts of the poet's persona in nature. It affirms the immediacy
and the distance between the poet and his persona; the depth of
his vision reminds us that even in the early lyrics of nature there
is always the threat of danger and that now too, in seeming disillusionment, there is the chance of redemption.
This then is I
created for young girls and the islands of the Aegean;
lover of the roebuck's leap
and neophyte of the olive trees;
sun-drinker and locust-killer.
Odysseus Elytis and Modern Greek Poetry
13
This is I face to face
with the black shirts of the resolute
and the empty wombs of the years that aborted
its children, the seductive cries!
Air unleashes the elements and thunder attacks the mountains.
Fate of the innocent, you are here, alone again at the Pass!
At the Pass I opened my hands
at the Pass I emptied my hands
and saw no other riches, and heard no other riches
but cold fountains pouring out
Pomegranates or Zephyrs or Kisses.
Each with his own weapons, I said:
At the Pass I'll deploy my pomegranates
at the Pass I'll post my zephyrs guard
I'll set the old kisses free, made holy by my longing!
Air unleashes the elements and thunder attacks the mountains.
Fate of the innocent, you are my own fate!
"For me the Aegean is not merely a part of nature, but rather
a kind of signature ... I and my generation-and here I include
Seferis-have attempted to find the true face of Greece. . . . Surrealism, with its anti-rationalistic character, helped us to make a
sort of revolution by perceiving the Greek truth. At the same
time, surrealism contained a supernatural element, and this enabled us to form a kind of alphabet out of purely Greek elements
with which to express ourselves." Like the surrealists, Elytis declares, "I, too, have brought to poetry a method of apprehending
the world through the senses." Surrealism, the anti-Western
mode of the West, has enabled this one Greek poet to eliminate
the centuries-old misconception of Greece by the West and to
begin to create, out of Western sources and Greek, what Friar
calls an "islandic consciousness," a "new cosmology" which sublimates the borrowed alien forces to local interests and needs.
The art of Elytis, like that of Seferis or Kazantzakis or many of
their contemporaries, is not a surrender to Western forms but a
unique amalgam which allows what is purely Greek to shine with
increased intensity.
In one sense, however, the "alphabet" of Elytis' verse differs
significantly from those of his compatriots. Where Seferis con-
14
THE CHARIOTEER
verts The Waste Land into a modern Greek odyssey of perpetual
wandering and aborted return (Homer's Elpenor dominates in
the Mithistorema and not any of Eliot's people), and where
Kazantzakis' Odyssey subjects Nietzsche and Bergson to the demands of Homeric and Near Eastern myth and of Cretan history
and mores, Elytis himself makes little use of traditional Greek
myth. His poems on "Helen" ("All those words whose unique destination was You!") and "The Odyssey" ("No matter what in
our part of the world we always went on voyages"), for example,
which transpose the characters and situations of myth into the
present, rely on our knowing the myths but do not use them explicitly. "I kept the mechanism of mythmaking," he says, "but
not the figures of mythology." Elytis' mythmaking is personal
and eclectic, compounded as well of Byzantine history ("Death and
Resurrection of Constandinos Paleologhos," "the last of the Hellenes") and the ritual of the Orthodox Church (Axion Esti,
"Worthy It Is," a refrain from the liturgy), of the evolving Greek
language and the landscape and culture of Greece. In this collective, ongoing process the various periods of Greek history
co-exist and interact, enriching and informing each other: the
young second lieutenant, "become the Achilles of the shipyards,"
fights alongside ancient heroes and wrestles with Death on the
threshing floor, constant symbol of the Greek struggle.
Well then Even memories run behind things to catch them in
time When old things in their turn also seem new
Legendary to those in days to come shall this day remain when
no one thought of grumbling but in a great distance in the foliage
sleek lemons glowed small suns of the ether.
("Palm Sunday")
"We come of a good stock," the poet declares ("We Walked in
the Fields All Day").
In the end, man defines his own existence; this is the recurrent theme of Elytis' poetry and, indeed, of much Greek literature
and life: " ... no one shall tell us our fate," he writes in an early
poem ("This Wind That Loiters")," ... we shall tell the sun's fate
Odysseus Elytis and Modern Greek Poetry
15
ourselves." "The world's an oppressive place to live through yet
with a little pride it's worth it," he adds almost thirty years later
("Constandinos Paleologos"); "WORTHY is the price paid" is the
constant refrain of Axion Esti. The much-sought for symbol of
the light tree is finally found, "in the back part of the courtyard
amid the stinking weeds and the scrap iron" (The Light Tree),
undiminished for having been part of life. In the end, we discover "That Spring even Spring is a product of man" ("The
Odyssey").
The theme matures and develops but is essentially unchanged.
The form, however, alters dramatically. After Axion Esti, Elytis'
work is increasingly experimental-"intricate," "schematized,"
"speculative," as Friar puts it, comparable in thought and technique to Yeats' A Vision or Stevens' Notes Toward a Supreme
Fiction. The language remains basically demotic, but, following
in part the lead of Cavafis, "he has also added to his lexicon,
grammar, syntax, and rhythm embellishments taken from all
periods of Greek literature-from the Septuagint, the Byzantine
troparia, the demotic songs and folk legends of the medieval
period; from Erotokritos, Makriyannis, Solomos ... -and he has
coined words of his own."
I was given the Helenic tongue
my house a humble one on the sandy shores of Homer.
My only care my tongue on the sandy shores of Homer
(Psalm II of Axion Esti).
The design is strikingly new; the spirit remains. "Few better examples ... can be found in literature of a poet's stubborn ability
to grow, to change, to mature, to reach in some regard a position
almost diametrically opposite to that from which he began, and
yet to retain integrally the basic parts which from the beginning
composed his personality and temperament." Friar's judicious
criticism complements his skill as translator. We can trace both
change and consistency with confidence because we know that his
translations are as accurate as they are evocative, that he has been
true wherever possible to the letter of the original and always
true to its spirit, and that he has been forthright in acknowledging
the problems of rendering so individual a diction and form into
16
THE CHARIOTEER
English. His is an admirable accomplishment, too easily taken
for granted, and suggests that to speak of Elytis or of modern
Greek poetry is impossible without speaking also of Kimon Friar.
DRINKING THE CORINTHIAN SUN
Drinking the Corinthian sun
Reading the marble ruins
Striding with my harpoon
At votive fish that elude me
I found those leaves that the psalm of the sun memorizes
The living land that desire rejoices
To open
I drink water, cut fruit
Plunge my hands through the wind's foliage
Lemon trees quicken the pollen of summer days
Green birds cut through my dreams
And I leave, my eyes filled
With a boundless gaze where the world becomes
Beautiful again from the beginning according to the heart's
measure.
from Sun the First, 1943
BELOW, ON THE DAISY'S SMALL THRESHING FLOOR
Below, on the daisy's small threshing floor
The young honeybees have struck up a crazy dance
The sun sweats, the water trembles
Sesame seeds of fire slowly fall
Tall stalks of corn bend the unburnt sky
With bronze lips, naked bodies
Scorched on the tinderbox of fervor
Ee! Eee! The carriage drivers pass jouncing by
Horses sink in the oil of descending slopes
Horses dream
Odysseus Elytis and Modern Greek Poetry
17
Of a cool city with marble troughs
Or of a clovercloud ready to burst
On a hill of slender trees that scalds their ears
On the tambourines of large fields that set their dung to dancing
Beyond in the golden millet tomboy's drowse
Their sleep smells of bonfires burning
The sun quivers between their teeth
Nutmeg sweetly drips from their armpits
And a drunken heat haze staggers with heavy strokes
On the heather the everlasting and the sweet-smelling jujube tree.
from Sun the First
(Kimon Friar's translations)
THE ALEXANDER PLAY IN
GREEK SHADOW PUPPET THEATRE
BY LINDA MYRSIADES
The Karangiozis performance over the past century has been
a staple of Greek folk culture and represents a blend of influences ranging from Indo-European folklore, Turkish puppet theatre (Karagoz), and live Turkish performances ( Orta Oyunu)
to native Greek history, folklore and legend. The comedies have
developed a mime-like structure based on the seira, a conventionalized parade of character types which express the attitudes
and lore of different regions of Greece; the histories have been
influenced by a suspenseful arrangement of events typical of the
tragi-comedies of live drama.
In the golden era of the Karangiozis performance, 1910-1940,
a number of these oral texts were published by players who
wished to preserve their corpus of works, by Andonis Mollas (33
texts) , for instance, and Kostas Manos ( 8 texts) , and Markos
Xanthos (52 texts) . Of these texts and others, which later players published, some 200 are extant. The most interesting, perhaps, are those on the Alexander legend; three have been published, four more are on tape. That tragi-comic and pseudohistorical legend is a purely Greek addition to the predominantly
Turkish elements in the repertoire of the Greek puppet theatre.
The Alexander play reflects both Christian and classical traditions drawn from legends about Saint George, Heracles, Perseus
and Alexander the Great; but it was also influenced by Greek
folk tales and demotic songs. As a proto-typical creation of the
"Greek" puppet theatre, the Alexander play exploits the seira
structure, while it takes advantage of both ritual events and intrigue for added interest and solidity. In the Alexander play are
some of the most representative stock scenes of the Greek repertoire: the expository opening conversation between Hadziavatis
and a bey, Karangiozis' mockery of town-crying, the parade of
o;uitors, Karangiozis' confused following of directions; and the
most representative of its stock characters (the old bey, Diony18
The Alexander play in Greek Shadow Puppet Theatre
19
sios, Kolitiri, Stavrakas, Barba Yorghos, Capetan Manousos). It
is a well-developed example of the tragi-comic play as performed
by the Greek player, including sufficient plot alternatives to permit individual variations.
Markos Xanthos' version presents the basic plot of the Alexander play: the offer of a reward for him who slays the dragon
guarding the spring, a procession of types who fail in attempts
against the dragon, and the final successful attempt by Alexander.
Xanthos' work, however, excludes the folk-tale motifs (the hero
cutting the tongues of the beast, Karangiozis posing as the
dragon-player, and the exposure of Karangiozis by means of the
tongues) which appear in the other published versions of the
Karangiozis Alexander play, Yiannis Moustakas' Karangiozis, the
Seven Beasts and Alexander the Great, c. 1945, and Panayiotis
Michopoulos' Alexander the Great and the Cursed Snake, 1972.
To the skeleton of the play, Xanthos adds an erotic motif (the
slaying of a dragon to win the lady's hand) and borrows its conclusion (the hero's suicide) from the world of romance. The
Alexander figure is a substitute for Saint George, the original
dragon-slayer of the Karangiozis Alexander play, who had to be
replaced because of religious considerations: his suicide was unacceptable to the Church. A cross on the hero's lance continues
to recall the saintly presence in the original play.
Xanthos was the first player (c. 1924) to publish his own
scripts; one script of Mollas was dictated to and published by
Louis Roussel in 1921. Xanthos was one of perhaps a dozen players'whose performances achieved distinction. Other players worth
of· remembrance include his contemporaries Mollas, Manos, Manolopoulos, Theodoropoulos and Haridemos, as well as some
earlier founders of the Greek style, Mimaros, Memos and Roulias.
Xanthos, who was a Cretan, is credited with adding the Cretan
type, Manousos Kretikos, to the Karangiozis performance. Unlike most performers, Xanthos was literate and could perform
many kinds of plays, which he presented during the years when
the form was at the height of its popularity; he died in 1932.
THE SEVEN BEASTS AND KARANGIOZIS
BY MARKOS XANTHOS
translated by Kostas Myrsiades and Linda S. Myrsiades
Cast: Karangiozis, Hadziavatis, Tahir, Emine, Serini, Moustapha,
Dionysios (Nionios), Manousos, Stavrakas, Omorphonios,
Barba Yorghos, Kolitiri (Karangiozis' son), Alexander the
Great, Velingekas (Dervenagas), Hasan, Gousa.
ACT I, SCENE I
(The scene shows the serai, or pasha's palace, on the right, and
Karangiozis' hut on the left.)
Hadziavatis: (Singing, he moves forward to meet Tahir, a rich
Turkish gentleman.)
I will wear black robes
a dervish to be
and the desert I will roam
for love's fervency.
Tahir: (Continuing from the other side.}
The world me consoles
and the mountains cry
while the muted stones
tell me to abide.
Hadziavatis: (Stops Tahir and bows to him.) My homage,
master Tahir, first to the Highest and then to your highness.
Tahir: Welcome, my friend Hadziavatis. I sought you in heaven
and I found you on earth.
Hadziavatis: I am at your disposal, master.
Tahir: Since you have no need of work, why don't you at least
come by the serai so we might see you? Or perhaps you have
a complaint with some officer?
Hadziavatis: A complaint? Master, what are you saying? Reduce me to ashes if I have a complaint against you or against
any officer.
20
The Seven Beasts and Karangiozis
21
Tahir: Eh, but then, why? I think I know what's going on,
Hadziavatis; from the time the late vizir died, you have avoided
coming to the palace.
Hadziavatis: No, master, it's not that! You know how it is;
every morning I go to the market-place looking for work.
That's why I don't have time to come to the serai.
Tahir: In that case, you're forgiven. Listen, then Hadziavatis,
to what I want of you. I've been looking for you at her highness' request.
Hadziavatis: Forgive me for interrupting you, but what highness do you mean?
Tahir: Ah, yes, I forgot to tell you. Well, then, when the pasha
died, he left a daughter called Serini and his mother Emine.
Upon his death, the mother ascended to the throne, taking the
title Pashina.
Hadziavatis: And why, master, didn't his daughter Serini take
the throne?
Tahir: That I don't know; all I know is that the pasha's mother
administers our city now. Thus, according to her command,
Hadziavatis, you'll announce throughout the city, in both Greek
and Ottoman quarters, that whoever can kill the seven beasts
of the desolate cave will take the lovely Serini for his wife;
upon the death of her grandmother, he will also ascend to the
throne. What do you say? Can you do it or have you other
work?
Hadziavatis: By all means, master, I go immediately.
Tahir: Very good, and when you finish, come, I'll pay you.
Hadziavatis: Good, I'll be there, master. Goodbye.
Tahir: Good luck, Hadziavatis.
THE CHARIOT EER
22
ACT I, SCENE II
Hadziavatis: There you have it, friend; as soon as I finish my
work, I'll get paid. However little I make, I'll get at least a
lira. Who knows, perhaps even two, three, or five! Whatever
it is, one needn't despair, thanks to God. But why am I sitting
still and not' starting here so I can finish down at the marketplace? Let me begin, then: "Hear ye, beys, agas, pashas, dervishes, Englishmen, Frenchmen, Russians, Italians, Austrians,
Chinese, Americans, Greeks, and Ottomaaaannnnssss ... "
Karangiozis: (Inside the hut.) What the devil got into him
howling like a dog?
Hadziavatis: "Hear ye, beys, agas ... "
Karangiozis: May you be stricken by poison, scarlet fever, rickets
of the neck.
Hadziavatis: (Continuing.) " ... dervishes, Englishmen, Frenchmen, Russians ... "
Karangiozis: May you grow callouses on your teeth, may nausea
overtake your fingers, may your eyes go white and turn to
chalk, and may God save you from the devil, amen. (He comes
out slowly, hunched over.)
Hadziavatis: "Italians, Americans, Greeks, and Ottomans ... "
Karangiozis: (Hits him.) Take that, and may the devil take your
mouth.
Hadziavatis: (Angry.) Why are you hitting me? Damn you!
You made me bite my tongue.
Karangiozis: You lazy bum, I'll make you bite your eye; I'll make
a pit of your mouth.
Hadziavatis: But why, what's your excuse?
Karangiozis: You smart alec, Hadziavatis; what do you think my
house is and you gathered here Englishmen, Frenchmen, ducks,
geese, and hens? Where will I find the corn to feed them?
And then, what if they get into some argument or other and
destroy my hut! Don't you understand, you crafty rascal-I've
tied it together with rushes!
Hadziavatis: My good fellow, come to your senses. I'm only making an announcement.
Karangiozis: Why? Are you a cock that you should crow?
The Seven Beasts and Karangiozis
23
Hadziavatis: Dammit, I have a proclamation from grandma herself to cry out.
Karangiozis: And what does this decree say? Read, so l can
hear it.
Hadziavatis: All right, but ask me politely, don't whop me right
off the bat.
Karangiozis: But that's my habit, you see; besides, is this the first
time I ever hit you?
Hadziavatis: No, it's not the first; there have been many.
Karangiozis: Well, since it's not the first, you shouldn't be picky.
You know that when I see you, I give you your due, just as
Velingekas gives it to me. Come on, read the decree.
Hadziavatis: Here, listen to what it says: "I permit this person,
Hadziavatis Tselepe, to proclaim freely throughout the cityPashina Emine."
Karangiozis: (Hits him.) . Why you worthless fellow, you dare
comply with decrees that don't bear my signature?
Hadziavatis: (Laughing.) Ha, ha, ha.
Karangiozis: (Hits him.) Take that and that and that, for each
laugh, one blow.
Hadziavatis: Well, then, now that you've frittered away my time
and I won't have time to make my announcement, tell me,
what's to be done?
Karangiozis: Why don't you take me along, Hadziavatis, and
we'll announce together?
Hadziavatis: Bravo, Karangiozis, come on.
Karangiozis: O.K., I'll come. But I divide whatever we get myself.
Hadziavatis: It's all the same, whether it's you or me.
Karangiozis: Oh, no, you're mistaken.
Hadziavatis: All right. But I don't know if you have a voice.
Karangiozis: A voice, you say? A voice for your eyes to see.
Hadziavatis: Test it, Karangiozis.
Karangiozis: (He calls loundly.) Ah, ah, ah!
Hadziavatis: Oh, no! May you be struck dumb!
Karangiozis: What, louder?
Hadziavatis: No, higher.
Karangiozis: Wait. (Walks off.)
Hadziavatis: Come back; where are you going?
24
THE CHARIOTEER
Karangiozis: Didn't you say higher? I'm going to climb the hut.
Hadziavatis: Not up high, dummy, but higher in the voice, that
i~ "minion."
Karangiozis: Ah, I understand, "delicatsion."
Hadziavatis: Yes, yes, bravo, cry out.
Karangiozis: (He calls out.) Oh, oh, oh.
Hadziavatis: No, higher.
Karangiozis: Ei, ei, ei.
Hadziavatis: Good, that's fine. That's the way; now you've got
it.
Karangiozis: Of course! So long.
Hadziavatis: Come back here.
Karangiozis: What is it?
Hadziavatis: Where are you going?
Karangiozis: I'm going to warble.
Hadziavatis: And what are you going to say? Do you know?
Karangiozis: I'll say, "Oh, oh, oh."
Hadziavatis: Listen to me, pay attention; whatever I say, you say.
Karangiozis: Speak, I'm all ears.
Hadziavatis: "Hear ye."
Karangiozis: "We heard."
Hadziavatis: Not "We heard." "Hear ye."
Karangiozis: Oh, come on, it's the same thing.
Hadziavatis: "Hear ye."
Karangiozis: "We heard."
Hadziavatis: Damn you! "Hear ye."
Karangiozis: "We heard."
Hadziavatis: Dammit, say it anyway you like. Why should I bust
my brain to fill yours?
Karangiozis: That's what I say. Continue.
Hadziavatis: "Beys."
Karangiozis: "Lazy days."
Hadziavatis: "Agas."
Karan giozis: "Asparagus."
Hadziavatis: "Pashas."
Karangiozis: "Dolmas."
Hadziavatis: "Dervishes."
Karangiozis: "Beverages."
Hadziavatis: "Chinese."
The Seven Beasts and Karangiozis
2)
Karangiozis: "Chick peas."
Hadziavatis: "Englishmen, Frenchmen, Russians."
Karangiozis: "Pheasants, mud hens and groschen."
Hadziavatis: "Italians, Austrians."
Karangiozis: "Carpenters, grocers, butchers, kettle-makers, starving lords, and the needy." Are there any others? "Good salty
fish-eggs, sponge divers' sardines."
Hadziavatis: What sardines and fish-eggs are you talking about?
Karangiozis: How do I know? Continue.
Hadziavatis: "Whoever finds and kills."
Karangiozis: "Dines and his stomach fills."
Hadziavatis: "The seven beasts of the desolated cave."
Karangiozis: "The bumble bees of the marinated cave."
Hadziavatis: "Will take the beautiful Serini for a spouse and,
after the death of the grandmother, the throne." Dash, and
no dilly-dallying!
Karangiozis: "Will take Zerzerini and afterwards if he wants
can read the newspaper The Drone. Dash and no dozing, and
if you get drowsy, sleep on the road." O.K., now you can go,
Hadziavatis. I know it by heart.
Hadziavatis: Yes, but where
shall we meet to make our
split?
Karangiozis: You'll come here
to get paid.
Hadziavatis: O.K. Good luck,
Karangiozis. (He leaves and
cries out.) "Hear ye ... "
26
THE CHARIOTEER
ACT I, SCENE III
Karangiozis: (Calling out to him.) Hey you! Shove off a bit,
dammit, before the Karangiozis clan wakes up and starts askink for bread! Let's start announcing, then. "Oh, oh." I forgot everything. Let's see, how did he put the first part? I can't
remember the first and last things; the others slipped my mind.
Let's see, how did he put it? (He approaches the front of the
serai.) Ah, ah, I've got it. "Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye, and
whoever didn't hear, what do I care! Where was Pserpserine
and the groschen with the carpenters who will be sleeping and
in their sleep will be reading The Drone. And the gyr-falcons
with the egg-peddlers who will get hold of the tripes. Hear ye!
The steamer Mizizippi departs tomorrow on the day of 12:30,
the hour of Saturday in the year October, for Sparta, Volos,
Larissa, Mytilini, Menidi, Tripoli, Karditsa, Yiannina, Aivalim, America! Who has tubs for brushing, chairs for unnailing, mats for tacking, barrels for plastering, hats for baptism?"
Come, come! Who is next? Here's your knife-grinder. Who
has razors, scissors, penknives, knives, cannons, machine-guns
for sharpening? Take some. Here's your good pretzel vendor,
take glasses." (He stops.) What the hell am I saying?
(While he speaks, Velingekas stands above and watches him.)
"Take a jar of sweets." (He sees Velingekas' pom-pommed
tipped shoe, his tsarouchi, and sings.) "I see a shoe, I'll beat
somebody and the wind will carry me off with all the kicking."
What could this be? Could it be a fishing boat? No, it
couldn't be, it's an airplane. (He feels Velingekas.) Holy
Mary, come to me! (He falls down.)
Velingekas: Sure! Straighten up, pimp.
Karangiozis: (Trembling.) Yes, yes, so was Demosthenes.
Velingekas: Sure! Why d'ya come, t'make a racket?
Karangiozis: I didn't take the racquet.
Velingekas: N-n-now, you bouzouki. Sure! I'll let you live. Sure!
So next time, sure, you'll know what you'll get.
Karangiozis: I know, there's no need to have a try-out.
Velingekas: (Hits him.) Sure! That's how you'll get it. Sure!
Take that, again, again, again!
The Seven Beasts and Karangiozis
27
Karangiozis: Ouch, ouch, I'll puke; may your dead be forgiven
and your living decrease. No more, enough.
Velingekas: Sure! Do you like it, you?
Karangiozis: Why? Did anyone complain? It was fine, next time
add more sauce, you hear?
Velingekas: Sure! Next time I'll beat you to a pulp.
Karangiozis: Of course, because this time you just ripened me up.
Velingekas: Sure, right, right. (He leaves.)
Karangiozis: May you come to a good end, as they say, you
dumbbell. No, sir, I take this as a case of disrespect. I'll go
demand his apology (He approaches the serai and calls. With
his cries, Hadziavatis comes out.)
Hadziavatis: (He calls to him.) Karangiozis, what happened to
you?
Karangiozis: Is it you, Hadzadzari?
Hadziavatis: Yes, my sweetie, it's me; get up.
Karangiozis: (Makes a vulgar sign with his hand.) There, take
that for your eyes, you no-account. Is that any way to sneak up
on me? I thought it was thieves wanting to take my money.
Hadziavatis: What, do you have money, Karangiozis?
Karangiozis: Money and then some.
Hadziavatis: Where did you find it?
Karangiozis: It's this way, my boy. I say to myself, why run
around proclaiming in the streets, and I decided it best to come
and announce outside the serai; so I did. I just began to warble,
when I hear from Tahini.
Hadziavatis: Master Tahir?
Karangiozis: Yes, yes, and he says, "What fine-fleshy-devilforged-youth is he who cries out so sweetly?" He calls the
cashier and says, "Give the warbler 50 lira." And the cashier,
Hadzadzari, my friend, descends and starting here (He shows
him the ground.) he counted for me up to here. From here on
he had no more to hand out and he left; in other words I
learned to tango, fox-trot, polka, and waltz.
Hadziavatis: Could it be you were beaten?
Karangiozis: It seems you understood.
Hadziavatis: Come on, let's go up, get paid, and divide our
shares.
Karangiozis: It's not necessary.
28
THE CHARIOTEER
Hadziavatis: Then wait right here. I'll go get paid myself and
come back.
Karangiozis: O.K., go; you'll be treated well. (Hadziavatis goes
up, while Karangiozis waits below.)
Velingekas: Sure! Halt, you. Sure, where y'going?
Karangiozis: Give it to him, dummy!
Hadziavatis: It's me, gallant one, me, brave one, me, my dervish,
me, Hadziavatis.
Karangiozis: Will you listen to that sly dog, that greasy spoon;
by mincing about, he saves his skin. I wouldn't have had a
chance of getting upstairs before the reception.
Tahir: Who is it?
Hadziavatis: Me, long-lived one.
Tahir: Welcome, come in, Hadziavatis. Don't be shy.
Karangiozis: No, I'm not shy. What profit is there in being shy?
Tahir: Give Mr. Hadziavatis a piece of halva. Like it, Hadziavatis, is it good?
Karangiozis: Good? Great! Boy oh boy, halva! I'll have some
more; I like it, you know.
Tahir: If you want anything else, don't be bashful.
Karangiozis: Not at all, I'm not bashful.
Tahir: There, take four lira and God be with you. Come by once
in a while.
Hadziavatis: My respects, master; thank you very much. May no
evil ever befall you.
Karangiozis: Oh hell, doesn't he ever get tired of saying such
things!
Hadziavatis: (Comes down.) Karangiozis, my friend, we're
saved. We got four lira.
Karangiozis: Good, put them down so I can split them.
Hadziavatis: What's there to split, kid? Like there's anything
to it. There are only four: two for you, two for me.
Karangiozis: Oh, no, not that way; they'll be divided by multiplication.
Hadziavatis: Come on, Karangiozis, don't split it like last time
so I don't get a nickel.
Karangiozis: (Slowly.) Think you'll get a nickel now?
Hadziavatis: What did you say, Karangiozis?
The Seven Beasts and Karangiozis
29
Karangiozis: I didn't say anything. Put everything on the table
now so we can begin the operation.
Hadziavatis: (Puts them down.) There you are, to set your mind
at ease.
Karangiozis: Tell me, do you want me to divide it as God would,
or as man?
Hadziavatis: Come on, Karangiozis, always like God.
Karangiozis: In that case, Hatziavatis, my friend, God gives
much to some, to others little, and this time he gave me a lot
and you nothing.
Hadziavatis: (Grabs him.) Alright, put them down.
Karangiozis: Down, down, alright then Hadziavatis, down, O.K.
I take one for myself, one for you. How am I doing?
Hadziavatis: Now, yes, bravo, Karangiozis.
Karangiozis: (Continuing.) One for me, one left over, that I'll
take for my troubles.
Hadziavatis: Same as always. I see through you, you hustler.
Phtou {He spits.) Get out of here, you bootlicker. (He
leaves.)
Karangiozis: You're not to blame. Take in someone to work
with, friend, and he'll rob you blind. I did all right for now;
next time I'll make sure he doesn't get a nickel.
THE CHARIOTEER
30
ACT II, SCENE I
(To the right of the scene is a great cave, to the left the hut;
Moustapha enters singing from the left, holding a knife in his
hand. He advances toward the cave.)
Karangiozis: (Behind him.) Poor fellow, how sadly he sings.
(He bends down so he won't be seen.) Hey, you!
Moustapha: Who is it, please? Oh, well. Probably no one there.
Just seemed there was.
Karangiozis: (Strikes him.) Clap!
Moustapha: By Allah! I bit my tongue. What the devil! Is
someone throwing stones? Some urchin, I suppose.
Karangiozis: (Slowly.) You dummy, what stones? It was a
full-blown fist. (He hits him again.) Clap! Clap!
Moustapha: Ouch! Right in the puss! (He calls out.) The urchin, I saw you. If I get my hands on you ...
Karangiozis: Will you listen to the big liar; he says he sees me.
Moustapha: Watch out; if I do see you, I'll take out my pistol
and blast your brains into the air.
Karangiozis: (Very slowly.) Let's not have any of your jokes,
you old dotard. (He raises his hand to hit him, but at that
moment the bey turns.)
Moustaphas Hey, you, I saw you!
Karangiozis: I saw you, too; how you doing?
Moustapha: Do you know me, to play jokes on me?
Karangiozis: What do you mean, do I know you? Aren't you
whatisname?
Moustapha: Moustapha Bey.
Karangiozis: (Hits him.) Take that, dummy, Moosetabombey.
You've grown. (Hits him.) Take that, dummy.
Moustapha: Come on now, cut out the sign language.
Karangiozis: So, where are you off to, old man?
Moustapha: Pikes in your eyes age for calling me an old man,
damn you.
Karangiozis: (Observes him surprised.) What the devil! Am I
blind? No, my boy, I'm awake. You're not old, you dummy;
you haveri't even begun to teethe. yet. How are things, Sir
Child?
The Seven Beasts and Karangiozis
31
Moustapha: Well, dear one.
Karangiozis: (Laughs.) Ha, ha, ha. Can you believe it? He
likes being called a child.
Moustapha: But I'm not old, sir.
Karangiozis: (Ironically.) No, very young. As much as ten times
ten. But tell me now, where are you off to?
Moustapha: Don't you know anything?
Karangiozis: No.
Moustapha: On Sunday I'm getting married.
Karangiozis: Boy, is this world nutty! I suffer from hunger and
he from love. And whom are you marrying, Sir Child?
Moustapha: The lovely Serini. Will you come to the wedding?
Karangiozis: This guy is ready for the straight jacket. The whole
world goes looney in the summer, but he gets it in the winter.
Maybe he's got winter madness. Tell me, how did you arrive
at the conclusion that you would marry Pussyrene?
Moustapha: Simple! I'll kill the beasts, and Sunday, the wedding.
Karangiozis: In other words, you're figuring without the innkeeper.
Moustapha: What innkeeper?
Karangiozis: (Indicates the cave.) There! That one over there.
Moustapha: Are the beasts big, sir?
Karangiozis: Not really! As big as the knife you hold.
Moustapha: By my soul, it's done. fll be a pasha.
Karangiozis: Yes, you'll become a pasha, but don't make out that
you're coming towards my hut or I'll blind you; I'm warning
you.
Moustapha: Hey, what do you mean? Have you any idea of my
prowess?
Karangiozis: Tell me, do youhave any money on you?
Moustapha: I've got five or six lira.
Karangiozis: (As if afraid.) Good God! What would have happened to you! You would have been lost for nothing, and so
·young!
Moustapha: What's the problem, dear one?
Karangiozis: Why, you dog, did you think of killing the beasts
with money on you? Don't you know that when you have
money the beast smells it and draws you into his mouth! You
see, it has a magnet in it.
32
THE CHARIOTEER
Moustapha: Ah, then do me the favor, sir, of holding my money.
I will be idebted to you.
Karangiozis: Really, it's no debt at all. Bring it here.
Moustapha: (Gives it to him.) Here, sir, take it and upon my
return you can give it back. I'm going now.
Karangiozis: Yes, get going, but stay far away from the hut.
Moustapha: (Approaches the cave and knocks.) Bang! Come
on out, cursed ones. (He hears a noise, "V-v-v-v-v-v-vout".)
Sir, what's whistling?
Karangiozis: (From inside the hut.) The Kalamata express.
(The beast comes out whistling, "Vou, vou, vou".)
Moustapha: (Sees it and trembles.) By Allah, Allah, my dear
one. (Calls out.) Sir, sir, sir.
Karangiozis: I don't have time now; I'm doing the wash.
Moustapha: In the name of my mother and father, may you be
cut to pieces with one blow of a blade!
Karangiozis: Strike, strike!
Moustapha: (Strikes it.) Take that, cursed one. (The snake
seizes him and runs to its cave.)
Karangiozis: What the devil! The
commotion stopped. Don't you want
to kill it? (He comes out.) I really
don't see anything. Ah, I forgot.
He's going to get Pussyrene. (Heapproaches the cave from which he
hears groans.) Boy, oh boy, they're
snacking on him. Dammit, if I
don't kill it myself, nobody can. (He
throws a stone; a grunt is heard,
"V-vout".) Holy Mary! Let me out
of here before it takes another snack!
(He runs to the hut.)
Kolitiri: What's wrong popsy?
Karangiozis: (Hits him.) Shut the
door and don't make a sound, before
it gets our scent.
The Seven Beasts and Karangiozis
33
ACT II, SCENE II
Dionysios: (Singing.) Zante, my Zante
Crown of the Levant.
Karangiozis: (Interrupting him.) Hey, you, Nionio. Howdy.
Dionysios: Hey! Welcome, dog. How are you, Karangiozis?
(Quickly.) Ya well, ya well, ya well?
Karangiozis: (Stops up his mouth.) Stop! I'm only well once.
Dammit, you sloberer. Your mouth works as fast as Father
Gabriel's worry beads. Well, then, where to from here,
Nionio?
Dionysios: Listen, so I can outline the menu for you. Go ahead
and announce the "finamenta" to the whole world.
Karangiozis: What's that you say? Renounce the cement-a?
Dionysios: What are you, a good-for-notthing scoundrel? Poor
fellow, doesn't anything get through that head of yours? Listen, little one. I came to kill the little snakes and become a
professor.
Karangiozis: And I tell you, go, and don't ask to become a hairdresser.
Dionysios: Hey! Why not, Karangiozo? Are the little snakes
big?
Karangiozis: Not really! Little ones, about so big.
Dionysios: Hey! Let me at them; I'll eat their hearts out.
Karangiozis: What, am I holding you back? Eh, get going, since
· you; too, want a part in these sweet goings-on.
Dionysios: (Approaches the cave and knocks.) Knock, knock,
knock. (While Karangiozis talks to him, the beast comes out.
It whistles, "V-v-v".) Hey, what's doing that, Karangiozo?
Karangiozis: It's the Orient Express. Turn around and see.
Dionysios: (Afraid.) Save me! Saints save me! Hey, what kind
of longboat is this? Like the mountain in Zante. Hey, what
devil possessed me? Grab me, Karangiozo!
Karangiozis: (Grabs him and drags him to the hut.) Run,
Nionio, it got you!
Dionysios: (Runs and tries out.) My hat, Karangiozo.
(The angry snake grabs the hut and shakes it. "Vvvv, vvv,
vou! Vvvvou!")
34
THE CHARIOTEER
Karangiozis: Holy Virgin! Kolitiri, shut the door. (Hits him.)
Come on, hurry up! And throw the matches and the box with
the wicks out the back!
Kolitiri: (Comes out to see what it is. The snake roars.
Vvvv.") Pop! Popsy!
Karangiozis: What's troubling you, boy? Something takes your
breath away?
Kolitiri: Give me pantz to chanze.
Karangiozis: (Laughs.) Ha, ha, ha, ha. Come on, change
quickly! There goes my domicile! It can't possibly be saved;
the beast will get it one of these times. (The beast leaves.)
Kolitiri, go ahead, see if it left.
Kolitiri: What's that, you beggar? I'm not chanzing any more.
Karangiozis: Come on, let's see what's going to happen. There's
no other way. I'll go. I'll kill one of them. (He calls.)
Kolitiri!
Kolitiri: Hare I am.
Karangiozis: Give me the penknife and come with me. Tonight
we must do great deeds.
Kolitiri: Hare, take it, but I'm leaving.
Karangiozis: (Catches him.) Come here with me. You'll go
wherever I go. Take only stones, but big ones.
Kolitiri: (Bends down and takes some stones.) Popsy, I got
some.
Karangiozis: Keep your mind on what you're doing; we'll attack
now.
Kolitiri: OK, popsy, I know. (They approach and knock on the
cave. Two small snakes come out and slither toward Karangiozis.)
Karangiozis: Strike, Kolitiri, they've eaten me.
Kolitiri: (Strikes one with stones.) Back you, I'll kill you, by
the holy doss.
Karangiozis: Get it! You, the one and I, the other! (The two
beat them off.)
Kolitiri: Popsy, I killed one!
Karangiozis: Bravo, my boy, and I killed the other. Come on,
now, let's go. Yo-u'll become pasha and I'll get Pussyrene.
Kolitiri: ··What's that, you street Arab? Did we kill the big cities?
The Seven Beasts and Karangiozi.r
35
Karangiozis: Why, yes, you're right. We should kill the other
five, too. Then we'll be rolling in onions for a month.
Kolitiri: Come on, you, before they grab us and make mush of
us.
ACT II, SCENE III
Omorphonios: (Comes out of the hut.) I'm going to murder
those little snakes, so I can become pasha.
Karangiozis: (Terrified.) What the devil! How did the beast
get behind us? (Turns and sees Omorphonios and cries out.)
Holy Mary, what monster is this? We're goners now! He'll
eat us for sure.
Kolitiri: What're you afraid of; it's a man.
Karangiozis: It's a man? Good God, and my heart's in my throat,
damn his ancestors. Hey, you, are you a man or the largest
viper?
Omorphonios: Look at me, fat-head!
Karangiozis: Queer duck! Where are you headed?
Omorphonios: I'm going to murder the snakes. Well, what do
you think? Will I become pasha?
Karangiozis: No doubt about it.
Omorphonios: How do you know, sir?
Karangiozis: By revelation! As soon as the beast sees you, it'll
burst its bladder and you'll become pasha with no effort at
all. I wish I had the luck to be as lovely as you. Anyway,
being a pasha becomes you.
Omorphonios: You have my word; if I become pasha, you will
be my chief bodyguard.
Karangiozis: Now I've heard everything! And when I become
trash collector, everyone will fear us! Forward, my pasha;
knock on the door.
Omorphonios: (Approaches and knocks; from inside is heard,
..Vvvv.") What buzzing is that, sir?
Karangiozis: Ah, here comes the Patras express. (The beast
comes out; the other four appear behind it.)
Omorphonios: Help, help! (Falls down, the beast puts its nose
on Omorphonios' heart and sniffs.)
36
THE CHARIOTEER
Karangiozis: What the devil, is it a doctor? (Comes close and
grabs Omorphonios by the head.) Hey, can I have him, you
drone? (The beast roars, "Vvvv !" Karangiozis begs.) Can
I have him, yes or no? ("Vvvv!") Yes, eh? Then, I'll take
him. (He taps the beast lightly; the beast roars "Vvvv!")
No, OK, I won't take him; let him be. But he's my friend.
No, I have to take him. I must. (He pulls slowly and drags
Omorphonios off. Angry, the beast seizes the hut and drags
it toward its cave.)
Kolitiri: Wow, popsy, the outhouse is shaking.
Karangiozis: A mere relocation, my boy. It'll move the hut to
Stadiou Street; by air mail, yet. Get out Kolitiri, quickly. (The
beast abandons the hut and leaves.) Praise God! Grab there,
Kolitiri. Let's put it back in place. (They lift the hut and
put it where it was.)
Kolitiri: Hear that? You street urchin, you're farting!
Karangiozis: Damn your ancestors, you lazy bum; you changed
your pants. Now it's my turn. But since it didn't take our
hut, we can't complain.
The Seven Beasts and Karangiozis
37
ACT II, SCENE IV
Stavrakas: (Singing, he enters.)
Karangiozis: Stavro, what do I see?
Stavrakas: Mercy, Karangiozako! I'll come clean as a canary.
Karangiozis: Perhaps you're going for the beasts?
Stavrakas: Mocker, what else, since I'll become pasha.
Karangiozis: Fine, but where's your knife?
Stavrakas: Little brother, after I sight it, I'll hollow it out;
that'll wring it out of shape. Get my drift? Come out see, if
you like.
Karangiozis: Yes, yes, get going. It'll be there in the cave.
Stavrakas: Hey, by Saint Aglaia, you'll have your spectacle, too,
little brother, of lions battling angry beasts. (He approaches
and throws a stone.) Come out, you mockers. (The beast
comes out and roars, "Vvvv!")
Karangiozis: Go to it, Stavro; let's see, when it grabs you, how
lions fight wild beasts.
Stavrakas: Little brother, Karangiozako, save me, I'm lost. If
it lunges, it'll make a mouthful of me.
Karangiozis: Flee, Stavro, quickly.
Stavrakas: (He runs.) Mercy, Saint Fasiane, I'm twirling like a
greenfinch. (Calls out.) Karangiozako! My hat. Save it,
little brother. (The beast roars in anger, "Vou, vou, vou, vou!"
It spreads itself flat on the ground outside the hut.)
Karangiozis: (Comes out and steps on top of the beast without
realizing it.) The devil! When did they pave this road? (The
beast roars, "Vou!") What's that, you say? (The beast
raises its tail.) You mean I don't have the right of way?
("Vou!") Now I've seen everything. I'm caught between the
hammer and the anvil. (Vou!") Well, now I'll die officially
and publically. ("Vou!" The beast turns and joins its head
with its tail with Karangiozis in the loop. "Vou!") For your
father's sake, please let me go. (The beast moves and so
Karangiozis escapes.) Oh, boy, jackpot! If he catches me
again, may you forgive me and may God forgive you. (The
beast leaves.) Did he leave? Thank God!
K'Olitiri: Popsy, what's wrong with that mug of yours; it's all red?
Karangiozis: Just had some cherry preserves, my boy.
THE CHARIOTEE R
38
ACT III, SCENE I
Manousos: (Singing, he approaches.)
Karangiozis: What's this? Welcome, Manousos. How are things,
Mr. Manousos?
Manousos: Well, God bless me, how you doing, youngster?
Well, eh?
Karangiozis: I'm well, but I see you with your cane; where you
headed?
Manousos: Well, Karantsoz, I learned that over there are some
snakes and came here to get them with my club and become
pasha. Well, how do things look? Will I be able to?
Karangiozis: I say, Manousos, you should leave.
Manousos: And why should I leave? Well, what's to happen?
Karangiozis: All right, Manousos, go ahead. Only when you see
them, don't come towards my hut, because, I'm telling you, I'm
not receiving visitors.
Manousos: Dummy, cuckhold! What's to happen? I'll snuff
them out!
Karangiozis: I'm leaving. Good luck and good dying. Get lost!
{Leaves.)
Manousos: He left, the son of a bitch. Let's see, what to do now.
(Approaches and knocks on the cave with the club.) Tak, tak.
Show yourself devil-monkey and be acquainted with Captain
Manousos. {They all come out together and make noise. He
calls.) Oh, goodness, what's this? (Calls loudly.) Where are
you, hey, you, Karantsoz? Over here, Karantsoz; hey, young
buck! Goodness, what's happened to me? Come on, you
dummy.
Karangiozis: (Inside the hut.) I can't spare the time, I'm washing my feet. Become pasha by yourself. (The beast roars.)
Manousos: Help me, Saint Styliani!
Karangiozis: Manousos, do them in quickly, or I'll come kill them
myself.
Manousos: Karantsoz, come here and I'll give you two napoleons.
Come on, you young buck.
Karangiozis: (Comes out.) Why didn't you listen when I told
you to take off? Stretch a foot so I can grab you.
The Seven Beasts and Karangiozis
39
Manousos: Come on, get a hold.
Karangiozis: It got you, Manousos.
Manousos: Hey, you, no funny business!
Karangiozis: (Pulls him slowly.) Manousos, the beast's upset.
It says it wants to look you over. What do you say, shall I let
you go?
Manousos: No, look you, I'll bring you a lamb.
Karangiozis: Get out of here! Eat it yourself. (Pulls him out
slowly until he gets him free.) Get going, Manousos.
Manousos: (He calls and runs.) My pants! Hey, Karantsoz!
(The beast bites its tail, almost cutting it off, and disappears
into the cave.)
Karangiozis: Oops, there goes my soul, straight to the Virgin.
Kolitiri: Popsy, what's running from your pants' legs?
Karangiozis: Quiet, you lazy bum and shut the door tight.
ACT III, SCENE II
Barba Yorghos: (Enters singing and holding a tsarouchi in his
hands.)
Karangiozis: Greetings, uncle.
Barba Yorghos: Poor fellow. What news, Karangioz?
Karangiozis: Good news, but fearful hunger.
Barba Yorghos: Tell me, boy, are those watersnakes big?
Karangiozis: Another one for the watersnakes! Why're you holding a tsarouchi?
Barba Yorghos: To crush those lively ones.
Karangiozis: Damn, I'm always mixed up with nuts. Tell me,
uncle, are you in your right mind?
Barba Yorghos: Why, Karangiozi?
Karangiozis: Do you think you're going to do anything with a
slipper?
Barba Yorghos: What! Then I'll take out my dagger and cut
them down. That's it, Karangioz. And if I become a great
man, you'll be king and I'll get the filly.
Karangiozis: Uncle, uncle! Beat it! I don't want to lose you. It's
a big one and it'll eat you up.
40
THE CHARIOTEE R
Barba Y orghos: Poor fellow. Do you think it'll beat me? I'm
not running. I'm going in.
Karangiozis: (Very slowly.) Hey you, come out now. There, it'~
coming. Oh, mother! Grab him, you!
Barba Yorghos: Are you talking to yourself, Karangioz? (The
beast stands upright without making a sound.)
Karangiozis: No, I didn't say a thing.
Barba Yorghos: What's troubling you, wretch; you're turning
yellow.
Karangiozis: Then you'll go green. Look over there, uncle, at
what's waiting for you.
Barba Y orghos: (Turns, sees it, and runs with all the strength in
his legs.) Pooh, pooh, pooh, and me without incense to bless
myself. It's over, I'm lost, wretch that I am. (Calls out and
runs.) Karangioooz! Gather up my tsarouchia and foustanela.
Karangiozis: (Laughs.) Wow, a cadillac couldn't catch him now!
Look at that, he bumped into the pretzel vendor. There go the
pretzels. Look, look, he ran smack into the tram. (He calls.)
Run, uncle, it got you!
Barba Y orghos: Is it coming, Karangioz?
Karangiozis: Yes, yes.
Barba Yorghos: Should I jump into the asbestos pit, too?
Karangiozis: Jump, uncle!
Barba Yorghos: I jumped!
Karangiozis: Good for you. There, you see, you'll be great after
all. Dammit, that's enough. I'm going into the hut before all
this running turns me into a motorcycle. (Goes in.)
.The Seven Beasts and Karangiozis
41
ACT III, SCENE III
Alexander the Great: (Approaches the cave with a lance in his
hand and sings.)
Sweet mother, I go my own way
to distant lands far away.
And you with your other sons must reside
and forever forget that I'm alive.
Karangiozis: What devil of a junk dealer is this? (Pushes him.)
Sir, with the plow?
Alexander the Great: Who is it, please?
Karangiozis: Me, you drone.
Alexander the Great: Come forward, so we can take a look at you.
Karangiozis: All right. (Passes in front.)
Alexander the Great: Well, I'll be ...
Karangiozis: What's this! Wouldn't you know I'd get in trouble!
Alexander the Great: How are you, Karangiozis?
Karangiozis: (To himself.) What? He knows me? Eh, sure,
I must have taken off with something of his and I don't remember it. Why the devil did I want to speak to him?
Alexander the Great: Why don't you speak, Karangiozi?
Karangiozis: (Trembles.) But I do speak. How come you recognize me?
Alexander the Great: Don't you remember me at all?
Karangiozis: No, not at all. Why? Have I stolen something
from you?
Alexander the Great: Why no, brother.
Karangiozis: How the devil did I miss ripping him off? This is
the first time that happened.
Alexander the Great: Don't you remember me, Karangiozi? The
other day when the constables took you to jail and I saved you?
Karangiozis: Yes, but which of all the days was it? Not a day
passes without a visit to the police station.
Alexander the Great: Why? Tell me.
Karangiozis: It's this way, my good man; the world is evil. When
I passed by Christopher's tinsmith shop, I saw a cup outside
with a drachma in it. As I was passing, it called to me, "Come
here, sir." I say to it, "What do you want?" "I beg you," it
42
THE CHARIOTEER.
says, "take me, I'm cold here." Ah, poor thing, I couldn't allow
it to catch cold. I felt sorry for it and, to warm it up, put it in
my pocket.
Alexander the Great: (Laughs.) Ha, ha, ha.
Karangiozis: Why the booby is laughing. (Hits him, but smashes
his hand.) Mother of God, my hand's broken!
Alexander the Great: Stupid fellow! Why did you strike my
armor?
Karangiozis: When did you develop it?
Alexander the Great: What, Karangiozis?
Karangiozis: The humor.
Alexander the Great: The armor, I said.
Karangiozis: By the way, what's this?
Alexander the Great: Ah, this is a lance.
Karangiozis: And this here?
Alexander the Great: This is a bow.
Karangiozis: This that you have on your head?
Alexander the Great: This is called a helmet.
Karangiozis: Well, now, where to from here?
Alexander the Great: To the beasts.
Karangiozis: Listen to me. Don't go; you're young and you
shouldn't die.
Alexander the Great: You needn't even discuss that, Karangiozis.
Karangiozis: What, you'll go?
Alexander the Great: Certainly.
Karangiozis: I was to go, but since you came, you go.
Alexander the Great: No, Karangiozi, I don't want to take your
turn. Here you are, go.
Karangiozis: Oh, no, I caught a cold; you go.
Alexander the Great: Karangiozis, don't leave. I will need you to
accompany me to the serai.
Karangiozis: Thank you, but I will contain myself in the bungalow and rejoin you later. (Leaves.)
Alexander the Great: He's frightened, poor thing. (Approaches
and with his lance strikes the cave. Loud roaring is heard and
all the beasts come out. Alexander strikes out with skill and
courage as the battle proceeds.)
Karangiozis: Oh, dear mother, they're making a snack of him.
(At last, four of the beasts are slain and Alexander is left to
The Seven Beasts and Karangiozis
43
battle the large one. The beast seizes him by the hand and he
beats at it mercilessly. Alexander falls down, singing.) What
the devil, why is it so quiet? (Comes out.) Good God, are
they eating him? Didn't I tell him, poor sucker? But he
wouldn't listen to me.
Alexander the Great: (Singing.)
Jesus and Virgin Mary lend a hand
And you Saint Erini.
That I may slay the animal band
And earn the hand of Serini.
Karangiozis: That son of a gun is singing. (He calls to him.)
Hey Alec?
Alexander the Great: Who is it?
Karangiozis: It's me; who else, Karangiozi.
Alexander the Great: Friend, Karangiozi, he has a hold of my
hand.
Karangiozis: Why doesn't he eat it?
Alexander the Great: Because it's iron. If you don't mind, Karangiozi, just throw a stone at the beast so I can get my hand
free; I would be indebted.
Karangiozis: What the hell are you saying. He should set you
free to snatch me?
Alexander the Great: Don't be afraid, Karangiozi. I wouldn't
allow that to happen. I'd rather be killed myself than see you
killed.
Karangiozis: Bless you. Watch out, now. I'll hurl a stone at it.
(Throws a stone at the beast and then falls down. Alexander
frees his hand and beats the beast; he finally slays it.)
Alexander the Great: Thank you, God. All powerful God, glory
be thy name. But where is Karangiozis? (Sees him and is surprised.) Poor thing, he must have been struck by the spear
during the battle. (Speaks to him.) Karangiozis.
Karangiozis: (Very slowly.) I died.
Alexander the Great: You died!
Karangiozis: Just now and once before.
Alexander the Great: But you are still speaking?
Karangiozis: It's a new fashion now for the dead to speak.
Alexander the Great: Rise, my savior.
Karangiozis: Get out of here! Don't call me Xavier.
44
THE CHARIOTEER
Alexander the Great: All right, where did the spear hit you?
Karangiozis: Smack in the heart.
Alexandner the Great: Then where is the blood?
Karangiozis: My little heart swallowed it up.
Alexander the Great: And where is the spear hole?
Karan giozis: (Shows him his nostril.) Here it is, right here.
Alexander the Great: This is your nostril.
Karangiozis: Since I told you I'm dead, that's the end of it; don't
we dead know better than you?
Alexander the Great: In that case, poor Karangiozi, so you will
not suffer any longer, let me finish you off. (Raises the spear.)
Karangiozis: (Jumps up and catches his hand.) What the hell
are you saying? Can't a person even die? Hey, what happened
here?
Alexander the Great: I killed it, go close, don't be afraid; it's
dead.
Karangiozis: Could it be faking?
Alexander the Great: No, go ahead, and then return so we can go
to the serai together; do you hear?
Karangiozis: You go and wait for me. I've got work now. Not
much, about half an hour's worth.
Alexander the Great: All right, I'll go and wait for you. (Leaves.)
Karangiozis: (Goes near the beast, opens its mouth and puts his
head inside.) Take it, eat, eat it, you; damn your ancestors.
Hadziavatis: (Enters and sees Karangiozis near the beast and
calls him.) Karangiozis, friend, we're saved! You killed it?
If you did, you're the pasha.
Karangiozis: I, certainly, I'm papa-shah. Here, come on, grab it
from there so we can throw it away.
ACT IV, SCENE I
(The serai on the right and Karangiozis' hut on the left.)
Karan giozis: Why is Alec late? These crickets are driving me
crazy.
Hadziavatis: (Comes to meet Karangiozis.) Karangiozis, friend,
pasha, how are you?
The Seven Beasts and Karangiozis
45
Karangiozis: Hadzadzari, why are you hanging around; what's
the problem? You wouldn't come around before for the love
of heaven; now that I became pasha, you're always here.
Hadziavatis: Wretched me, Mr. Karangiozis. I have children.
I, too, need money; don't you understand?
Karangiozis: All right. Go now, come back in an hour. I'll order
up a bank to be loaded on your back; you can take it away.
Hadziavatis: Good. To your health, Mr. Karangiozis. (Leaves.)
Karangiozis: I might as well go in myself and wait for Alec now.
{Goes inside and Serini and Tahir come out.)
Serini: Now then, come close, Mr. Tahir.
Tahir: I'm here, your highness.
Serini: What have you learned about the beasts.
Tahir: To tell the truth, I'm not sure.
Serini: How can you possibly not know?
Tahir: It's rumored that Alexander slew them, but I don't know
whether that's true.
Serini: Very well. Thank you. Go now, Mr. Tahir, I have no
further need of you.
Tahir: My homage. (Leaves. Emine enters.)
Serini: Oh, Alexander, Alexander. You have loved me twelve
years and now the hour that I become a Greek, that you make
me your wife, has come. (Leaves.)
Emine: Now, come here Tahir. Tell me the truth; what did
Serini say to you, my child?
Tahir: Your highness, she was asking who triumphed; that is,
who killed the beasts, and I told her that Alexander killed
them.
Emine: I see. The little vixen loves him, that infidel. But she
will not enjoy him. I'll pull her out by the roots. Allright,
go.
Tahir: (Leaves, talking to himself.) What the devil is wrong
with them? Serini loves Alexander; her grandmother won't
accept him because he's a Greek. I don't know what to think.
Emine: (Angrily) . She loves him! But she will not have him.
I'llgive her to whomever I wish; I'll give her to an aga, a
pasha.
Alexander the Great: (Calls.) Karangiozis.
Karangiozis: Here I am.
46
THE CHARIOTEER
Alexander the Great: Come with me. (They approach the serai.)
Now, Karangiozis, go up to the serai to ...
Karangiozis: (Interrupts him.) What? What did you say?
Alexander the Great: I said, go up to the serai.
Karangiozis: What are you saying? You want them to beat me
to a pulp?
Alexander the Great: (Angrily.) If anyone bothers you, he'll pay
with his life.
Karangiozis: (Takes courage.) You betcha. What did you take
me for, a coward? You'll see how I soak up the punches.
Alexander the Great: You'll say that Alexander, the Macedonian,
has come; did you hear?
Karangiozis: How did you say it, the Macaroni-man?
Alexander the Great: Alexander, the Macedonian.
Karangiozis: Alec, the Macaroni-man.
Alexander the Great: Did you understand it?
Karangiozis: Oh, sure, easy as pie.
Alexander the Great: Forward, then; go and be not afraid.
Karangiozis: O.K., I'm going. (Goes up and calls out.) Madame,
I have something to tell you.
Serini: What can I do for you?
Karangiozis: Alec the Macaroni-man has come.
Serini: I don't understand.
Karangiozis: Look here, child, he came and he has macaroni, too.
Serini: We don't want any macaroni; we already bought some.
Karangiozis: O.K., I'll say you got some. (Goes down.) Alec,
bad luck.
Alexander the Great: What luck?
Karangiozis: They got some, she says, this morning; Now they
don't want any. If we'd come sooner, maybe they'd have bought
some.
Alexander the Great: You devil, what are you talking about?
Karangiozis: What you told me, that we have macaroni.
Alexander the Great: Do you know you are a pain in the neck,
Karangiozi? Yes or no?
Karangiozis: I'll say it, what do I care?
Alexander the Great: Come here, where are you going?
Karangiozis: Madame, I've something to tell you.
Serini: What is it?
The Seven Beasts and Karangiozis
47
Karangiozis: He says he has a panfull on his back and it's good
for making supper. Will you buy it, he says, yes or no?
Serini: I don't understand anything, sir.
Karangiozis: Listen, child, it's Alec the Macaroni-man.
Serini: Could it be Alexander, the Macedonian?
Karangiozis: Yes, bravo, glory be to God!
Serini: Tell him I'll be there in two seconds.
Karangiozis: All right, I'll tell him. (Descends.) She told me two
seconds and she's come down.
Alexander the Great: Bravo, you did one job properly.
Karangiozis: Why, did I do the others cheatingly?
Serini: (Comes down.) Well, welcome, Alexander. How are
you, Alexander, dear?
Alexander the Great: Beautiful highness, is it you?
Serini: I don't want you to call me "Highness," for you know that
I shall become a Greek. Who's this gentleman?
Alexander the Great: This is Mr. Karangiozis, my distinguished
friend.
Karangiozis: Yes, yes, my little pussyrene, how's tricks?
Serini: Good, but why are you squeezing my hand?
Alexander the Great: For shame, Karangiozis, you're a disgrace.
Karangiozis: Shame, he says! The poor sucker's blind; she's like
a fresh loaf of bread.
Emine: (Calls.) Serini.
Serini: Here I am, Grandma, dear.
Emine: Go inside.
Serini: Yes, grandma. (Leaves.)
Emine: Who are you, my child?
Alexander the Great: I'm Alexander, the Macedonian, who slew
the beasts.
Emine: Ah, my child. Wait a minute, my son-in-law, so I can
bring you some apples. Come here, Serini. (She goes in.)
Serini: Here I am.
Emine: You cannot wed this unbeliever. No! I'll give you to
whomever I wish.
Serini: But why, good grandma, since he killed the beasts? Why
·can't! marry him?
Emine: No, no, it's no good. You'll not have him; if you do, 1'11
pluck out your eyes. Now, I'll poison him, the infidel.
48
THE CHARIOTEE R
Serini: (Softly.) Alexander, Alexander.
Alexander the Great: What is it, my lovely Serini?
Serini: Be careful; my grandmother will offer you apples, but
don't eat them. She has poisoned them.
Emine: (Comes out.) Here, my child, have some apples; I picked
them fresh from the apple tree.
Alexander the Great: Thank you, good grandma. I'm not accustomed to apples.
Emine: But take some, child; eat them and see how sweet they are.
Alexander the Great: I wouldn't want to offend you. (Takes
one.)
Emine: Eat them, my boy.
Alexander the Great: Don't worry, I'll eat them. Farewell. Let's
go, Karangiozis. (They leave.) Karangiozis, wait for me at
the hut. I'll come in half an hour; do you hear?
Karangiozis: O.K., get going. (They leave.)
Emine: So, you love the unbeliever?
Serini: I love him, and I'll love him until I die.
Emine: Now you'll see. (Calls.) Come here, Hasan, and you,
Gousa.
Hasan: Yesem. I'm here, mistress.
Gousa: Yesem. Yours to command.
Emine: I'll make you officers, if you kill Serini.
Hasan: All right. Farewell.
Go usa: Y esem. We know, mistress. (They come out.)
Serini: Where are you going, soldiers?
Hasan: Yesem. Come here, so we can whisper it to you, mistress.
Serini: (Approaches, but has no chance to speak before they kill
her with their swords.) Oh, Alexander, save me! (Stops
breathing.)
Karangiozis: (Comes out.) Seems I heard something. (Approaches and discovers Serini dead.) Ah, it's blood! Who
would kill her? Curses on your ancestors!
Alexander the Great: (Running.) What is it, Karangiozis?
Karangiozis: (Bending down, he cries out.) Gone is little pussyrene, she who gave life to us.
Alexander the Great: (His appearance changes.) Get away from
there, Karangiozis. (Bends down and sees Serini dead. He
cries out.) My Serini, my beautiful Serini! Karangiozis, leave.
The Seven Beasts and Karangiozis
49
Karangiozis: Wait a minute. Someone is coming.
Hasan: Hey, there! What are you doing, you good-for-nothing?
Karangiozis: What do you think? We want to know who killed
this wretch so we can reward him with ten lira. (At the mention of money, the two soldiers cry out together, "Yesem, me!"
"Yesem, no, it was me. I killed her!")
Alexander the Great: Here, take your reward! (He hurls his
lance through both of them at once.)
Karangiozis: Bravo, bullseye! Two birds with one stone. It
nailed them like crabs!
Alexander the Great: Karangiozis, here, take a drachma; get me
some paper and an envelope, but find a big envelope.
Karangiozis: O.K., I know, but don't leave.
Alexander the Great: No, I won't. Wait, come here.
Karangiozis: Present! Now, what do you want?
Alexander the Great: (Bends and kisses him.) Go on now, go.
Karangiozis: Oh, world you are mysterious! Why did he kiss
me? What the hell, maybe he thinks I'm Serini. (Leaves.)
Alexander the Great: My Serini, I follow you.
Karangiozis: (Approaches.) I couldn't find an antelope. (Stops
abruptly and sees both dead. He cries out.) Oh, Alexander!
That's why you kissed me. Oh, true countryman, had I known,
I wouldn't have left. (He mourns them.) Women of the
neighborhood, girls. Shake a leg, bring me shrouds and earth;
I'll sell them. Someone is coming.
Emine: What are you doing here, you unbeliever?
Karangiozis: (Takes out a penknife.) You old coffeepot, you
old testament, you hag; damn your ancestors, you old witch!
May the devil take your soul!
Emine: (Tries to flee but Karangiozis catches her.)
Karangiozis: No, you won't get away; you'll follow them. Take
tb at and that! And that! (He stabs her with his penknife in
the middle of the neck.) There, die a pig's death! I might as
well take them now and dig a ditch to bury them in. And the
old woman? Let the dogs eat her. (Lifts them up.) I'll bury
. them with my own two hands. (Leaves.)
Illustrations courtesy of Ekdhotiki Etairia Ermis.
THE ART OF GEORGE CONSTANT:
CONTRADICT IONS RESOLVED
BY DESPOINA SPANOS IKARIS
The artist lives, as he must, by his eyes, even as we, the
spectators, live through his vision and see the world as he asks
us to see it. The images he puts before us, though, bear the imprint of far more than ever confronts him visually. His art is
a translation-into a language he creates for our understandingof figures which spring from many corners of his being and
compel themselves upon his art during the process of its creation.
Through those images, often, can be traced the circumstances that
helped to shape him not only as artist but also as person.
In the art of George Constant, a great quietness reigns-the
kind that comes only after great turmoil, after a conflict of many
opposing forces, finally resolved, reconciled to each other in a
prevailing calm, a unity. These contradictions are rooted in the
events of his early youth; and his art, in every phase, shows his
struggle, again and again, to bring peace, or at least a truce
among belligerants who drawback only to marshal for a new
attack. He, himself, is a restive nature-a kind of storm petrel,
flying headlong against the wind, sometimes gliding on the wind
to a momentary haven, only to soar again into the lowering sky.
The son of Zacharias and Zaphir Constantinopoulos, George
Constant was born in 1892 in Arahova, now known as Abythos
Aegaeou, a village that clings to the bare ribs of mountains overlooking the Aegean Sea. After the death of his parents, within
a few months of each other, the small boy was placed in the charge
of two uncles, the one the head of the monastery of Eleusa, near
Patras. From the walls of Eleusa, the stern eyes of Byzantine icons
looked down upon the young observer. The splendid line and
color of such art enchants even while the awesome majesty of
Byzantine figures strikes deep into the heart of the innocent who
dares return their glance. The art of Byzantium is but the outward
show, the ritual of feeling, disciplined to predetermined patterns
from which there must be no deviation. The iconographer must
50
The Art of George Constant: Contradictions Resolved
51
sublimate his individual thoughts and feelings, however deep
and personal, into a stringent objectivity. The effect of the whole
must be greater than the sum of its parts; each detail is a symbol
of the experience of the godly.
Yet, at that monastery, the boy was, too, surrounded by the
racial memories of the Greek past, fostered in the teachings of
his masters who were imbued with the humanism of the ancient
world. His consciousness was streaked from its very dawn by the
two conflicting rays of light-the pagan and the Christian, the
sacred and the holy. Each was charged with mystery, but the one
led toward a center in himself, toward a knowledge based on a
primal communion with himself and with nature, while the other
led to a center outside himself, in the revelation of an immanence
beyond nature, which commanded to be embraced in a denial of
himself. The one demanded freedom; the other, obedience. Yet,
the ultimate destination of both was the same. So, in the art of
George Constant these two compulsions lock forces and their
intermingling brings a vibration of meanings that are always
elusive-a s if the images dare not directly reveal the truth for
which they stand. Such conflict may be defined as between the
Delphic and the Byzantine, each now with, now against the other,
straining to control whatever subject the artist undertakes; each,
in alternate ways, is a touchstone that seems to have guided him
throughout many vicissitudes in his personal and artistic life. The
powerful impact of a work contrasts with the sparseness of detail
and testifies to the power of the maker, in the original Greek
sense of the word, the poet.
Neither would have taken hold if he were not, as he is,
reverent by nature. In all his works, this reverence speaks through
the ritual enacted on his canvas by the forms in their relation
to each other and to their colors. Passing phases of contemporary
art-history are, at times, reflected in his works-impressionism,
post-impressionism, surrealism ,-but no label can be fixed upon
him. He absorbs his surroundings, but he never adopts their
identity. Always he is his own man and walks a lonely roadlonelier than that of most artists. His is a haunted soul-as if a
mysterious presence pursues and yet evades him. Whether he is
depicting representational figures or abstracting them into representative configurations, they do not have an independent life
52
THE CHAR IOTEE R
but exist within a pattern, a ritual of relationships that imposes
itself upon the subject.
One of the more striking characteristics of his work recurs
in the eyes of the faces he draws, whether they are specifically
human or humanly designed. The faraway look of ancient statues
and the obliqueness of the Byzantine is in the regard of the eyes
that peer at us and beyond us. His figures have an inwardturning consciousness. They do not come to us; we must go to
them. They are full of unspoken memories, originally complex
but now reduced by time and meditative scrutiny to a few eloquent
lines and a few rich yet muted colors. There is the reminiscence
of iconography and of ancient frescoes and yet a silent rebellion
away from the past-a need not so much to escape from it
as to govern it, to make it "work" in new ways toward humbler
ends-n ot toward the divine but toward the human. The bold
assertiveness and yet deliberate secretiveness that give character
to the icon, are combined in the works of Consta nt-in those
that clearly show a recognizable reality of a familiar world and
those drawn from a penetrative grasp of linear masses in selfcontained tensions. He is at once archaic, full of nostalgic turns,
and yet a pioneer, impetuous for horizons still invisible to younger
men.
A work which reflects an essential quality of his personal
and artistic consciousness is "The Red Robe," the portrait of a
young woman who is a kind of Mona Lisa for our time.
Constant's young woman, like Da Vinci's, is her own person,
herself; but she is, too, a product of the contemporary world and
of its bewilderment. She is seated upon a chair of contemporary
design, and we are conscious of her hands and of the expression
on her face, shifting between her eyes and her mouth. Unlike
Da Vinci's elegant lady, Constant's is in personal attire-s lippers ,
pajamas, a house robe; these are not intimately depicted in themselves but suggest an intimacy with the place where she sits and
with us, as-by the concern the artist creates in us for her-we
enter her world. Her clothing belongs to the figure in spare,
strong lines that slant toward and away from each other in a
rhythmic, but not gentle, motif. The simplicity of the whole and
of each part has an intensity of character that belies the brevity
of means whereby that intensity has been achieved. The stark-
The Art of George Constant: Contradictions Resolved
53
ness of the background is as significant for our time as the com·
plexity of the Da Vinci portrait was for the Renaissance. The
simplicity of the whole seems a stylized reduction to a minimum
as in the Byzantine figures which, in turn, by their controlled
fluidity recall ancient idioms. The whole is a kind of visual haiku
-poignantly centered upon a crucial recognition in the emotional
life of the nameless young woman who sits with folded hands,
who does not dare to look at us or at reality in the eye. She is
overwhelmed by what little she knows and by the feelings that
overbrim her knowledge; mutely she wonders about a fate that
has been unkind and does not promise to improve. She is the
eternal madonna, a victim, destined to suffer, unable to fathom
the mystery that enfolds her, that holds her helpless at the cross·
point of her life, a moment when the artist seems, suddenly and
by chance, to have come upon her.
Thus, at a glance, Constant draws us through several dimen·
sions of time, caliedoscopically vivid in a single image. Through
such seemingly casual encounters with the visual world, the artist
opens vistas as to his own concepts, felt and divined, about the
dimensions of psychic experience that exist behind the phantoms
which lure the body's eye. His innate tendency to explore beyond
the immediate, caused him to leave Greece and migrate, not to
Paris-which, after Athens, is a redundancy-but to the Amertca
of World War I, where he was at times swept along by crosscurrents of ethnicities and theories that have marked life in America during the past century or so. Since 1922, he has lived in New
Y ark where the climate for his art spurred him toward new
developments. These were described by the late Walter Pachhis most devoted friend-as "'a building block style' that could
apply admirably to the decoration of our big modern edifices~ ...
But the bare forms that remained have been crying out. . . for
more of a human quality; and with the lovers that Constant can
see portrayed in his most austere tributes to the beauty of stone,
there is indeed a warmth that is lacking in pure geometry, plane
or solid." ["Submerged Artists," The Atlantic, February 1957.}
In his geometric studies where form and color compete for
power, the one over the other, where the tensions of the one do
not cancel the other but rather complement the other-a unity is
compelled by the motif of figures intertwined as in a kind of
54
THE CHARIOTEER
erotic embrace. This motif of eros revealed within a context that
at first glance suggests a hostile encounter, looms central in his
art of later years. The effect of the whole, however, is of peace,
of the acceptance by the one of the other. The artist perceives
the battle of life, the unending chain of contradictions that constitute living, but he sees, too, the principle of eros, of the transcendent desiring that causes opposites to move toward each other,
their forces to lock into a single entity. The artist sees this pattern of conduct most vividly expressed in human relationships,
particularly between man and woman. "After all," George
Constant says, "this is the main thing in life, isn't it? Man is
the main actor in this world. He has ultimate control over the
future, though, it be God-given. Perpetuation of life is the most
fundamental process; and so my ambition has been to portray
the relationship between man and woman." (Derek Schuster,
The Southampton Press, December 20, 1966.] The lovers is a
theme which George Constant has developed in many variations.
The reverence for the "God-given" which has marked his
understanding of life since his earliest days, seems most to fulfill
its longing in this untiring study of the relationships between man
and woman, in every phase and form. The art of George Constant
is a classical search for the ideal balance between two opposites,
but always they meet in a calm beatitude. As Carlyle Burrows
wrote in Symbols [April, 1951 ], these "securely interlocking elements of form and pattern are impregnated with human meaning,
suggesting the ages old concept of the sanctity of the family
relation, or in the lovers' embraces a recreation of remembered
sentiment." Therein lies the discipline that governs his theory
of this motif which is essentially erotic but controlled within a
philosophic context of archetypes.
Again, a year later, Burrows noted, "In these mysterious
strangely architectural compositions, his figures proclaim the affinity of life, of the ideal harmony of nature." The consciousness
of the artist seems to have come full circle. The elemental truths
that confronted him in the austere monastic world of his childhood, prompt him in his mature years to grasp the essentials of
human experience, washed clean of superfluities by a stringent
imagination that has no patience with self-indulgence. Necessity
pulls the parts of his compositions together, as if the "building
The Art of George Constant: Contradictions Resolved
55
blocks" of color and line were magnetized, across vast distances
into a pre-destined union. All occurs with a serene acceptance
of the inevitable, as if the artist lives among private myths which
he weaves and unweaves into variations, but always the theme
remains unchanged. It is a theme of love, human and divine,
that informs all beings, sends roots deep into the soul of things
and branches toward the firmament. The art critic Hi Simons
wrote of George Constant, rrThere is nothing quite like him anywhere else in the world of art." ["Magazine of the Art World,"
Chicago Evening Post, April 19, 1927}. The years since 1927,
have reinforced the truth of that appraisal. From a multitudinous
life, a multitudinous art has unfolded, but always at the core of it
is the fire of a passionate nature, straining to purify and simplify,
to melt away superfluities and separate the dross from the gold.
George Constant was born in Arahova, Greece, in 1892 and migrated
to this country in 1910. George Constant is a pioneer among American
modern painters. He studied at the Washington University of Fine Arts
(St. Louis, Mo.) and the Chicago Art Institute. He had many instructors famous to the American art scene, including George Bellows
and Charles Hawthorne. From 1919 to 1921 Constant taught art at the
Dayton Art Institute (Ohio). He moved to New York City in 1922 and
has lived and worked there since. He also has a home and studio in
Tuckahoe, Southampton.
Constant has had more than sixty one-man shows since 1924. His
works have been included in major national and international exhibitions
here and abroad, and they are in the permanent collections of
many museums, including: The Metropolitan Museum, Museum of
Modern Art, Philadelphia Museum of Art, The Pennsylvania Academy
of the Fine Arts, Brandeis University, The Brooklyn Museum, The
Baltimore Museum of Art, The Butler Institute of American Art, The
Dayton Art Institute, Isaac Delgado Museum of Art, The Detroit Institute of Arts, Library of Congress, Stedelijk Museum (Holland), TelAviv Museum (Israel), University of Nebraska Museum, Walker Art
Center, Norfolk Museum of Arts and Sciences, Ball State University Museum, Smithsonian Institute, Whitney Museum of American Art, Andover
Museum of American Art, Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden,
National Museum of Greece, Guild Hall Museum, Wichita State University Museum, National Portrait Gallery, and many others.
Constant's awards and honors have been numerous. In recognition of
56
THE CHARIOTEER
his art he was awarded among many other prizes The Frank G. Logan
Prize and Medal, Chicago Art Institute 1943, The Shilling Purchase Prize
1939-1943-1956, The Emily Lowe Award for "Todays Painting" 1968,
and the Library of Congress Purchase Prize 1947.
His work has been reproduced and written about in numerous books
and magazines, including: "The Art Museum in America" by Walter
Pach, "The Naked Truth and Person Vision" by Bartlett H. Hayes, Jr.
In 1961, Arts, Inc. published a monograph called "George Constant."
George Constant was winner of the Best-In-Show award in the 37th
annual Guild Hall Artist Members' Exhibition in which over 175 artists
exhibited work, May 31-June 13, 1975. The award traditionally is a
one-man-show in the following year. The Jury of Awards was: Robert
Elkon, Carolyn Lanschner, John Opper.
"Portrait of Helen Morgan (the singer]," 1928. Drypoint, 9Vz"X 11".
"New York", 1970. Oil on canvas, 72"X 52". Collection of the artist.
"Lovers, III", circa 1950's. Oil on canvas, 30" X 22". Collection of the artist.
30"X2
t. ,r o Jo ,, st
<
W
.
0
3
9
re on.
1
Mrs. D . P
'd Child",
" M o th .,lle'"ction o f Mr. and
Co
2".
"Tower of love", 1947. Oil on canvas, 50"x36".
Collection of Mr. George Coumantaros.
"The Red Robe", 1945. Oil on canvas, 50"X36".
Collection of Calliroe Constant.
"Municipal Moon", 1948. Oil on canvas, 34"x44". Private collection.
"By the Sea", circa 1936-37. Oil on canvas. Collection of Judge Julius Isaacs.
"Venus and Mars", 1951. Oil on canvas, 32"X42".
Collection of Mr. John Cali.
"The Arm Around Us", 1958. Oil on canvas, 24" X 33".
Collection of Dr. and Mrs. Norman Herzig.
MY GREECE
BY GEORGIOS-ALEXANDROS MANGAKIS
translated by Rachel Hadas
QUESTIONS
What, in essence, is our native land, that which defines and
marks our life? The question arises imperatively and torments
the soul of the man who, obliged to go against the mainstream,
finds himself in a painful state. At the time of this grief, which
has been caused by a series of independent decisions, the impulse
toward self-analysis surges, inquiring into everything, disputing
all answers, and always posing new questions. Introspection leads
to scrutiny of our deepest motives; it probes that region of consciousness where justification is found, or else one's path is mistaken, and one's life wasted.
This time of torment is caused by the need to define (without
generalizations and patriotic rhetoric, which have no relation to
awareness) what-simply and honestly-is this native country for
whose sake the unwieldy burden of living has been undertaken.
Seeking this essence, wherever the soul needs truth and genuineness, it necessarily returns to a simple place: childhood and
adolescence. For the bond between a soul and its native land
begins to be forged with the first impressions of the places where
you first live, where, skinning your knees, you played as a child, the
places where, awestruck, you first count the stars, where you first
begin to know that magic word, home.
So I am trying to capture the essence and define the meaning
of my country. Recollection of my first years broadens my existence, as I gain a new awareness of the meaning of my life. That,
no one can take away from me.
I
From the time I can begin to remember, I remember the sea.
As children, my brothers and sisters and I spent our summers on
65
66
THE CHARIOTEER
a remote Aegean island that we came to worship. Winter in
Athens was only an interlude, so to speak, until we could return
to our island, and the journey there was an event we awaited with
the yearning only a child can feel. That voyage, fifteen hours,
was, I think, the first great joy, and certainly the most unadulterated joy of my life.
As the trip began, over, what seemed to us, the boundless
Aegean, "flower-strewn" by our love, we became silent; the full,
intense silence that is evoked by the experience of a mystery. We
heard the magic sound of the capstan raising the anchor, the
pounding of the engine, in rhythm with the pounding of our
hearts; we saw the beauty of the steersman's upright stance, the
economy of his motions, and we were drenched through and
through with the odor of the sea, and with that boat smell which
the uninitiated detest.
So we came out onto the open archipelago. This is why in
my first feelings, the image of Greece has been stamped as sea
rather than as land. It was much more this uninterrupted, everchanging element with its radiant beauty and incessant motion,
the endless open sea ever travelling with the wind toward a destination not to be seen, limitless, determined by a power unseen but
strongly felt, which derives from boundlessness. Even the headlands, as they jut out, light-beaten, light-watered into the sea, lose
their earthy substance, become a condensation of the surrounding
sea and sky, and travel with the waves and the wind. Greece
entered me as a windblown, skyblue, liquid flowing toward a
horizon that was clear, revealed, absolute, and, therefore, secret.
And you within this motion, necessarily a motion yourself, also
journey toward the horizon that marks out your place.
Greece: waves upon waves, tame or threatening, that follow
or pursue an unknown fate. The threat of danger marks your
life. Thus Greece becomes danger, mortal but not inhuman,
catastrophic but not barbaric; a danger beautiful as a fairhaired
ephebe bathed in light. It appears, this danger, with the blue
body of the sea, clothed in golden scales, and like the lovely mermaids of the fairy tale, summons you to fatal, alluring adventure.
Thus, the first image of Greece is illuminated in a child's
soul, as something so real it overflows all sensation and floods
the heart to the brim, but at the same time as something intan-
My Greece
67
gible, sibylline, something yearned passionately throughout life
-it cannot be otherwise-yet never grasped in its definite shape, its
true form.
This is the first experience: the sea.
II
We used to arrive, I remember, on the island at dawn. It was
still dark as we approached skirting the first cape. We knew our
nearness in the dark by a fragrance. For every part of Greece,
even the naked and parched places, breathes a perfume. Our seamen know this. On our island there was a fisherman who might
have traversed the Aegean blindfolded. He recognized the approach to even the barest rocky islet by its odor. The earth of
Greece speaks to the most delicate, most indefinable sense, the
sense of smell, and to that sense first reveals itself. Once, years
ago, I returned at night from a long period abroad, my soul full
of homesickness and my senses alert antennae whose sensitivity
sharpened as the distance from home diminished. Suddenly, I
started, shook myself awake. I had smelled Greece. I knew with
complete certainty we had arrived.
Next, you see the mo;untains. Everywhere mountains, huge,
small, one beside the other, in a sequence your soul immediately
accepts, in which it would never allow anything to change-not
the slant of the smallest hillside, not the undulation of the most
insignificant slope. Almost nowhere does the earth of Greece
present a flat plain that leaves the soul unmoved: here even dry
land has a rhythm now bearing you on a journey along its curves,
now tossing you high up to its summit.
Among these mountains lie meadows and valleys, wisely, one
might say, placed there so that the soul may catch its breath after
the journey, breathe deeply, quench its thirst. Yes, preciselyquench its thirst, there where water swells little groves of fruit
trees and plots of melons.
They say that we have few trees, and this is true. But in no
other place do you feel more directly the meaning of a tree. When
you find yourself smack at noon, in the August heat, on a dry
Greek hillside, see a tree twisted by wind and sit in its meager
68
THE CHARIOT EER
shade, then that one specimen teaches you more of the idea of a
tree than do the thousands of trees in the forests of the north.
The land, this land, is washed by a flood of intense, merciless
light. The closeness between light and objects is such that the
light seems to radiate from everywhere. It does not fall from
above; it glows from the objects themselves, light flows from
within the earth, from the rocks and stones. Everything is a source
of light. I remember the words of an English friend who fought
in our parts during the Occupation -one of those rare souls his
race produces, which are its glory, full of feeling and a thirst for
adventure. On Delos, as we wandered one summer noon, he
stood a moment, giddy in the sun, and said to me:
nToday I realize the supernatural quality of light. I thought
the magic of mysteries was born only in deep shade, in the dark.
But here on this earth, in this lightheadedness from light, I feel
that strange creatures are strolling about. But I am not afraid of
them."
I do not know whether the landscape of Greece is the most
beautiful there is. I once returned by air to Greece, passing over
the Alps and Italy. The day was clear; the beauty of the endless
Alpine summits and the richly-colored texture of Italy enchanted
the eye, filling me with admiration and delight. Then, a while
later, Greece jutted out: the play between the winding of her
coasts and the rhythm of her mountains, the intervals of her spare
colors over land and water-the harmonious beauty of a spiritual
place.
This is the second experience: harmony.
III
I remember the deep impression the life of the islanders made
on me. Many images remain vivid. First, the pulling of the trammel net: It began at dusk and lasted until late into the night.
The men are divided in two teams, each pulling its own rope,
with a little boy at the end of the line to coil the rope. The backward bend of men's bodies, at once pulling the rope and supported by it, the sway of their vibrating, unified pace, the constant alternation of the last man's position with that of the first,
My Greece
69
portray an inner rhythm like that which animates the ancient
dance of tragedy or somehow unifies the human forms in a Pheidian frieze. So much toil in this motion, and so little return!
And yet this toil and poverty do not crush the soul. They torment
it ceaselessly but do not wear it out.
The same is true of the other fishermen, those who work with
nets or long fishing lines armored with several interspersed hooks.
They go out late in the afternoon, spend all night on the sea,
return at daybreak utterly exhausted, and then they must clean
and dry their nets or hooks. Only when this is done do they sit
together to eat their boiled fish and soup, to drink a glass of
wine, to rest. Yet, this hour of kakavia -fish soup-i s a true refreshment of the soul. At this time the sadness of their hard life
is transformed into a joke, a tease, rough but cheerful. The talk
often passes easily from the small incidents of daily work to the
basic problems of life, with that secure wisdom of men who live
in a constant state of reckoning with that life. The time of the
soup, then, with its warm human fellowship, its conjectures, is
the time of a brief daily deliverance. Here is revealed another
side of the mystic energy and zest for life which are inspired by
Greek reality. In this place, where daily work becomes a torment,
the man who lifts the burden is not brought to his knees by it but
paradoxically gains a deep affirmation of life, just as the spectator of an ancient tragedy lives the sufferings and adventures of
its heroes, and discovering therein the secret meaning of the fate
of mankind, is not rudely shocked but on the contrary is drawn to
whatever life deems lofty and sacred.
This grinding toil with an insignificant yield I also encountered in the life of our neighbor V rontos, the farmer. One summer he and his children had the task of clearing a piece of land
on a hill, carrying earth up from the flatlands with their animals.
This is life in Greece, to work with your bare hands at your plot
of land on a crust of stones. Yet at dusk, when this wretchedly
poor family gathered in the courtyard for their evening meal,
there reigned the sweetest calm I have ever encountered.
Life in Greece is a harsh struggle that you wage every day
alone, improvising as you go along. You undertake this struggle
because you are summoned to it by that same life whose beauty
arouses your thirst to savor it and your desire to conquer it. So
THE CHAR IOTEE R
70
the other aspect of the struggle is that it is impromptu, a game not a careless amusement, but a joyful deliverance. From this
point of view we can understand the old saying that we Greeks
are forever children.
It has been said, I think rightly, that in Greece the voyage of
life takes place on a raft. An uncomfortable and dangerous voyage, it requires constant vigilance to continue, but finally discloses
the meaning of existence: awareness of each day of the voyage
yields the most profound beauty of life.
On a famous ancient cup is depicted Dionysos, sailing a small
ship on whose rigging the branches of grapevines have burst
forth. All around, happy dolphins leap. This is the magic of
journeying in a small "seafaring tub." The toil and danger are
absent, and all this is natural, for the voyager is a God. In the
human voyage, beauty is inseparable from, strangely bound up
with, the pain of living and the danger of the destruction of life.
Thus we are voyaging.
This is the third experience: the voyage, as difficult as it is
beautiful.
IV
I do not think it will seem strange if in painful times my
thoughts seek refuge in remembering some of the simplest islanders. A frankincense seems to have emanated from their lives.
They were among the eccentrics of the island, precisely because
in such individuals are more clearly expressed certain character
traits which all men have to a greater or lesser degree.
At some time there had settled on the island a man who must
have been about sixty-Thomako, they called him. He was tall,
erect, white-haired. He lived in great poverty, with scanty earnings. Mornings, he would catch and sell small limpets, or would
fish with a line. Evenings, when the weather was calm, he would
take his guitar far off on the rocks and sing in a sweet broken
voice. Other times, he would sit in a corner with a few companions, drinking a little wine. He did not talk much, but his
opinions carried weight. In this way he spent his last years; he
died during the Occupation, worn out by want. The island was
My Greece
71
the poorer for his departure. He was a man who had wilfully
got out of life's involvements, going straight to its essence. I
think he had drawn close to wisdom; it appeared in a peculiar
calm he radiated, extracted from a profound process leading to
simplicity. His calm emerged "de profundis." This man, far
more than all the educated people I knew, taught me that wisdom, where it really exists, has something of holiness: its tranquillity.
.
Our house on the island was looked after by Kyra Marouss1.
An old woman now, she had outlived a thousand miseries, including the loss of her intimates. Papadiamantis might have had her
in mind when he said that the sufferings of mankind are without
end. Yet, rarely would you meet a more lively, spry person, always in motion. She ran to wherever she could be of help. Her
good word and her practical assistance were given with a jest,
and thus they went deeper, for they gave more relief. Kyra
Maroussi, this poor old crone, had found a way of giving, of giving everywhere and always, playfully and with joy.
Another person who taught me something important about
life was Zacharias. He was a fisherman who never worked with
others-he always fished alone, and only when he was in the
mood. This man steered his life within the narrow confines of
the island, sometimes staggering with the wine he drank, a harmless lover of nearly complete independence.
One morning I saw him sitting on the shore, fishing. He
wasn't in the best humor. As I passed, I said, "Hello, Zacharias,"
and he answered, "Hello when I feel like it!"
This means a desire to control your world completely.
As in all small towns in those days, there was an errand boy
whose nickname was Hook. Poor as a churchmouse, he lived in
a hovel and by necessity did every kind of work. Eager for every
task, he knew how to do them all. So he earned his meager bread,
but he did not stop there; he cared about everything and wanted
to learn everything. He cared with a sincere human interest. A
soul most open to the matter of living, a mind most open to its
puzzles, nested in this community sparrow.
The tranquillity of wisdom: goodness performed with joy;
the love of independence; and the baring of the soul with curiosity before the wonder of the world-the se are the marks of human-
THE CHAR IOTEE R
72
ism, this venerable living heritage which our people has not
derived from books and studies. Rather it wells up from within,
from age-old impulses of the soul.
Perhaps this long heritage of humaneness is the reason people
in Greece grow old so beautifully. I do not know whether it has
been noticed how splendid are the faces here: the long-enduring
faces of the old, tugged at by all the winds of life, benign. Maybe
this beautiful growing old is one of the most eloquent tokens of
human nobility, which is none other than this same humaneness.
This is the fourth experience: humaneness.
v
On our island before the war, there was a curious custom.
While waiting for the steamer from Athens to approach, two or
three rowboats would head for the open sea, each with its competing team of oarsmen. As the ship approached, still at full
speed, the crews of the boats, rowing furiously, would try to get
alongside the ship, to throw grappling hooks with ropes attached
onto its sides, and to clamber aboard. This practice was known
as kotsarisma, and the man who climbed aboard the steamer was
a kotsadoros. The deed required great skill, correct calculation,
precision of movement, strength, and above all courage, for this
deed was most dangerous. The fear was that the boat might not
reach the ship's side; the ship's propeller or its foaming wake
might catch up the rowboat and capsize it. Another fear was that
the climber might fall into the sea and be cut to pieces by the
propeller. This gaf?lble with death was doubtless, inherited from
pirate days and had passed into people's blood, for a supposedly
practical reason: to determine which boatman would be first to
engage passengers debarking on the island. The real significance
was something else: kotsarisma was a contest of valor. The
kotsadori were worthy of notice in the small island community,
and the best of them was an honored personage.
As I recall it today, this deadly sport reminds me of that
fresco at Knoss os-a youth, grasping the horns of a bull, about
to leap lightly and gracefully over it. The same playfulness
against brute force, of an animal or a machi ne-in this instance,
My Greece
73
the forces of nature-must be always performed with style, to
demonstrate not only man's sovereignty over those forces by
means of balance, but also the beauty of such balance which is
the basic element in a human victory.
In those days, the champion at this sport was Petros Kourinis.
Tall and slender, spare and graceful of motion, he always wore
behind his ear a sprig of basil. He was unequalled in the dances
of the island, full of fantasy, yet with great discipline of movement which was a strange alternation between airy swiftness and
momentary stillness: an intense, unearthly concentration. He was
an indomitable lover of fun and always infatuated with somebody. He had a child, gossip said, out of wedlock. First in everything, he was first in friendship, too: an inseparable friend, like
a brother to most of the young men on the island. Open-handed,
he gave to his friends without keeping accounts. Brave, he was,
and that in the ancient meaning of the word. He died young, of
galloping consumption.
To this man I owe my first taste of that peculiar and complex
form of excellence, levendia. In him I first saw its joyful side;
in its depths, however, it hides something like a sob at the beauty
of life, carefully locked in the inmost recesses of the heart. From
him I first understood that there is a way of going through life,
of playing with it lovingly, with unreserved devotion to every
source of joy: danger, ideas, women, wine, dancing, the sea,
friendship; to be a frantic lover of all these with only one yardstick and that one, an absolute: charismatic style. I once heard
that not only danger and valor require a stout heart and courage,
so also do merrymaking and the enjoyment of life. This is the
doctrine of a levendi, and it was enacted, during his short life,
by our island's unlettered kotsadoros.
Later, I became learned with other aspects of this particularly
Greek quality, levendia. I return first to an event, trivial in itself,
which made a deep impression on me and influenced my whole
life. One afternoon, when our family was gathered around the
table, I recounted that, a while earlier, coming home from school,
I happened to witness an incident. A wagon-horse going up Solon
Street slipped and fell. The driver, instead of cutting the traces
so the horse could get up, began to swear at it and beat it. A boy,
slightly older than myself, about fifteen or sixteen, who happened
74
THE CHARIOTEER
to be near-by, went closer, whereupon the driver turned and hit
him.
After I related this, my father asked, gravely, "And you?
What did you do?"
I had done nothing, and I told him so. A vague, fleeting look
of disappointment came into those unforgettable eyes as my father said to me, "When you see an injustice, son, do not stand aside;
otherwise, you will never become a man."
That was all he said. Yet, those words opened a new dimension of the world to me, and throughout my life even as a grown
man I have tried to follow that paternal advice.
I still remember my mother's brother, Uncle Manolis, the hero
of our childhood legends. In those days he was a handsome naval
officer, his life filled with adventures at sea, in war, in love.
Whenever he returned home from his voyages, he seemed to bring
with him a breeze from the wide, brightly-colored world that enchanted our childish hearts. He had all the beauty of levendia,
and he remained faithful to it, even though he paid dearly for
doing so. To defend a friend and colleague who had been unjustly accused, he dared to· oppose his superiors, fell into disfavor
with them, and ended his career prematurely ....
Looking back over my life, I can fortunately recollect enough
instances of such gallantry to save myself from the familiar
drowning sensation caused by the recurrent misfortune of so many
others. During the years of the Occupation, in the partisan movement, was that tall, slim dream-figure of a warrior, Demetrios
Soutsos, who saw the war as a holiday, reciting Mavilis and Palamas at the worst moments, who lighted fires at night in sight of
the enemy lines as if he were playing with peril, inviting it upon
himself. There was, too, that old guerilla who went up to mountains because he could not bear to turn in his rifle-"A family
heirloom, you see." I remember, too, that handsome and melancholy sublieutenant Iatrides, an archangel with a little blond
beard. His mysterious calm in the face of danger surely had its
source in a profound certainty of his approaching death, borne
out by his early demise.
Thus from the difficult, tormented life of our country springs
this strange blossom, levendia, the quality that makes a man go
My Greece
75
through life, wearing a flower behind his ear, whistling with
nonchalant courage.
This is the fifth experience: levendia.
VI
My first sense of the world of people came within my family,
and it was a sense of boundless goodness. Surely here is the
primary cause which explains much of what I have done or experienced in my life.
The first memory of my life, its first image, is stamped on a
chance moment: the image of a slender male form, my grandfather, with his white beard and the tight black clothes of his
epoch, playing with me, the baby, rolling lemons across the table.
Clearly, I remember the yellow of these lemons. I can even tell
accurately what time it was from the sweet gold light of the setting sun. An even more intense impression is that of the deep
voice calling me, "Yeoryio" in a way I have never been called
since. This anachronistic name, vestige of a past before my birth,
seems to have gone through a complicated inner process and I
think produced the conviction that I belong to a sum total of individuals who are lost back in time. It is surely more than coincidence that my first memory refers to a moment which holds
within itself this extension into the past ....
The sense of family becomes much more immediate with subsequent memories and acquires a living content.
I remember-how could I not remember it ?-that embrace of
my grandmother-the sweetest refuge for our childish wailings.
Never again does life offer such a haven.
In that embrace, forgiveness and consolation were bestowed
with the certainty, one might say, of a natural law. Grandmother
was the heart of the family, so the family was the world of
goodness.
Such, too, was the world of Uncle Spiro, my father's brother,
a doctor who had been wounded in the spine in Asia Minor and
thenceforth totally crippled. He lived with a sweet-natured old
woman who had been a servant in my grandfather's house in old-
76
THE CHARIOTEER
er days, had never married, and had devoted herself to my sick
uncle.
Every Sunday noon, we children used to have dinner at Uncle
Spiro's; afterwards we would go with the old lady to a little shop
in the neighborhood, where we bought whatever we wished from
a treasure of trinkets sold there.
Those Sundays with those two unfortunate people taught me
another precious lesson: the meaning of a happy hour.
This was the tangible world of the family, a more or less
ordinary family in our parts. There is also the other, the world
of reaching back into the past. Not that I know much about my
ancestors; few Greeks do. Some fragmented information, some
vague references. About some great-grandfather, a seaman in his
youth, who established himself on the island as a miller. A stubborn man; at the watermill they still point out a broken place on
the millston_e he is said to have made with his sledgehammer,
when some customers were urging him to grind their flour and
he had other things to think of. Another great-grandfather and
his wife, depicted on the lower part of the icon stand in the
chapel of Prophet Elijah, as "founders," are dressed in the strange
clothes islanders wore during the Turkish occupation. This world,
almost buried in the past, came closer to us and strangely revived
with those old widowed or maiden aunts who lived on the island
and on whom it was indispensable that we should pay a call, even
on the first day of our stay. I owe something to those visits,
strange for us children. They were like a portal into the living
past: the furnishings, the many old photographs, the rhythm of
life, the stories told, even the little jar filled with the sweet preserves served by the spoonful. Everything had that special atmosphere of the past which, when it enters your life in tangible form,
gives you the enchanting feeling that you are not a rootless creature, without connections, measurable only by the days of your
own life.
And so, with these memories and many others, the meaning
of family and its bonds gradually became complete for me, and it
is finally taking shape in our country as the most real and positive
context for the heart. Your family tree may not be recorded on
parchment; yet in the most natural and direct way, you realize
that you come from a sum of living that stretches back in time
My Greece
77
and is lost in the past, of people each of whom, in his or her life
span, was a hunter of dreams and a voyager, with passions and
sufferings and misfortunes and some joy. You realize that all
these people of the past exist within you; they define your inner
world and vigorously insist on expressing themselves, alive again,
existing once again in the adventure of your own life. You feel
that this whole world of your race is still vibrant, in being, today,
with your family, this true starting point and place of shelter,
your own people, whose love for you and yours for them, is the
most indestructible thing in your life.
This in our country is the family: the sixth experience.
VII
I began to live the history of our country long before I began
to learn it. Fortunately. It entered me and began to put forth
roots, the most significant, in the first years of my childhood,
with simple experiences which put me on the right path and from
which not even our official schooling was ever able to dislodge me.
My father's brother, Uncle Spira-l have mentioned him al~
ready-had been wounded in Asia Minor. To that war he owed
the ruin of his life. We also heard talk of another uncle, Uncle
Vasso, a charming man, poet, reveller, dreamer, singer, who went
as a volunteer to Asia Minor and never returned. Yet that war,
which had struck our family so hard, was mentioned by everyone
in a way that clarified several basic points.
To begin with, it was obvious that war is a calamity. So even
then, no seed of belligerence could ever sprout deep within me,
not even when I began to be taught in school the feats, however
remarkable, of Alexander the Great, and the history of our nation, almost exclusively from the military point of view. As regards the disaster of that wat, something made me understand
that the family accepted it, not merely as we accept a natural
disaster, but because it accepted the reason for the war. And this
reason I experienced a little later, in school-no, do not imagine
that it was through my lessons-from the presence of a pupil who
was a refugee. He was a courteous boy, thin and sad, who re-
78
THE CHARIOTEER
mained oddly different from us, with that indefinable quality
which marks a person who has emerged from great misfortune.
The presence of the boy brought home to me the certainty that
that war, and the sufferings of my people, had been fought for
the sake of this child and his people. Thus, my young mind first
recognized that what we call history is an attempt on behalf of
humanity, for which a terrible price is paid in suffering by humanity. From those first years, Greece and her history began to
seem to me full of human significance. It was not an empty glory
that had come with flags and drums-an ostentatious parade
towards nothing at all, which tramples and crushes people as it
passes. On the contrary, Greek history was an anguish wholly
identified with something real and essential: man's longing to be
free and just and fine, to make the world a place for people to
live in. Thus, I learned that our country has a distinct meaning
and that if it does not have that meaning, it is not Greec·e.
Later, much later, during the prewar dictatorship, I experienced the political vicissitudes of my father and the political
persecution of my Uncle Niko, the sweetest man I have ever
known, the most sincere in his humanism and the most determined on the behalf of that quality of humaneness. I learned
then that the enemy exists even within the walls; he is a man like
us in his language and appearance, but he has a different kind of
heart, not at all Greek even in the most debased sense of the word.
Then, into the readiness of my adolescence fell the splendid
words of Xenopoulos: "Whenever a man is in danger, my children, try to rescue him, even if you are thereby endangered yourselves. But if he can be saved only by losing his freedom, then
do not save him. It is better for a man to die free than to be saved
and be a slave." This most irreconcilable statement was carved
upon me forever, and it was, and is, the most Greek thought I
have ever heard. It burned within me and once and for all identified Greece with Freedom-not merely national freedom, but the
Freedom of Mankind, the struggle to be delivered from every
oppressor, foreign or domestic-it is the same enemy. So our
particular history defined itself for me in concrete terms; it became a history of Freedom.
And that is the seventh experience: history.
My Greece
79
VIII
Should you ever wander on a summer noon along some shore
or island hill, baked by the sun, whipped by light, maddened by
cicadas, your soul sweating from the wrestle with the wonder of
this world, your steps will surely lead to one of the tiny white
island churches. As you push open the low wooden door and
cross the threshhold, at once you will meet the strange, almost
unaccountable coolness that reigns in the shadowy little place.
This coolness has an unearthly pleasantness, as if it were "not of
this world." It feels like a cool paternal hand protectively and
benignly stroking your perspiring face, and with boundless relief
you breathe in the coolness, redolent of wax and basil. In the
plainest and most humble church-along with the ineffable cool
it offers your spirit-you will meet holiness. It is the metaphysical
quality of the cool and the simple. In this blindingly white little
chamber, built in the middle of nowhere by the piety of some
peasant, far more than in the elaborate cathedrals of the world,
you will feel that God dwells, and that He is expecting you. He
is a simple, humble, kind God, a God who has, indeed, come
riding on an ass to this His frugal dwelling place.
This God does not tower before you as judge and avenger;
you feel Him by your side, genially, forgiver and protector, full
of sympathy for the human sufferings of your weakness, ready
to take your trouble upon himself. He becomes established and
enthroned within you, not as the conqueror of your mind but as
an instinctive possession of your soul, a precious paternal support
among your sufferings and sins.
Like God, His saints in our country are humble and simple
and stand alongside of people. If you happen to be in church
when a saint's memory is being honored on his feast day, you will
feel as if you have been invited to the home of a friend on an
occasion of great celebration. There the saint, his little church
freshly whitewashed and decked with flowers and myrtle, has
opened his doors and is at .home to anyone who wishes to celebrate his joy with him. For this reason he has undertaken to treat
everyone to bread, meat, and wine. After the liturgy, when the
music and dancing begin, you feel that the saint is making merry
so
THE CHARIOTEER
among the revellers: that he, too, is sitting there, off to one side,
that he hears the music, enjoys the dancing, benignly regards
human gaiety, and refreshes his long-suffering holy spirit. And
if the saint should be one of the warriors and heroes of our faith,
then one can say that inevitably he will sooner or later stand up,
his soul brimming over with enthusiasm, and join the dancers.
In such a simple and direct way in our country do you meet,
from childhood on, God and His saints. It is a good meeting.
This is the eighth experience.
*
*
*
*
*
With these experiences, granted me from my earliest childhood and bound up with, and enriching, my later life, Greece
entered my bloodstream and rules me. All this for me is not only
Greece; it is the content and wealth of my soul. These experiences-with the sincere love which some people have bestowed
upon me, with my many sufferings and some ideas, constitute
whatever of value I have gleaned from living-are my only, but
my true, property.
So I have been bound to our country by a fervent and indestructible love, and this love has guided my steps; and not only
in the greater or lesser decisions of my life but, strange as it may
seem, literally.
The following incident happened to me. Because of the war
I had not been to the island for ten years. It was a painful separation, but well worth the gladness of being once again in familiar
waters. Indeed, only then did the war end for me. I arrived at
daybreak, alone. As the sky grew pink, I and a village friend
took the road to my house. The road passes a sandy beach where
you go down several steps. I was all one, body and soul: one
sharp, vibrating mass of sensation. It was one of the rarest moments of one's complete belonging to the world, of absolute in~
tensity. As we came down the stairs, I felt with great certainty
that something in my moving was lacking. I turned and said to
my friend, "One step is missing."
"Yes," he said, "the sand has covered it, but how did you
know?"
I knew because my love controlled my very footsteps. This
love for one's place is small but absolute.
My Greece
81
With souls thus afloat, we have set forth on the journey of
our lives, and thus we are voyaging.
Georgios-Alexandros Mangakis, born in 1922, studied law at the University of Athens and in Munich. He was Assistant Professor of Penal
Law at the University of Athens from 1956 to 1968 when he was unanimously elected Professor. His election was not approved by the government of the Colonels. He was arrested and in 1970 was sentenced to
eighteen years of imprisonment. He was released in 1974 when the Junta
fell. He is the author of many studies on penal law and other fields of
legislation. To honor him for his contributions to the study of law, the
Universities of Heidelberg and of Bonn elected him Professor of Law.
His essay "My Greece" from Nea Kimena [New Texts, Athens, 1971)
was written during his imprisonment.
ABOUT GEORGE IOANNOU
BY THOMAS
Douus
George Ioannou, born in Thessaloniki in 1927, began his
literary career as a poet. In 1966 he published his first collection
of prose, Out of Self Respect (Yia ena philotimo), which
included two pieces. A modest beginning perhaps, but their reflective interior monologue, austere restraint, and searching selfexamination made Ioannou known in Greece as an innovator
from whom much fine work could be expected. He continued to
win acclaim, even though, as most Greek writers, he refused to
submit to the military censors and thus published nothing after
the April coup of 1967.
Except for those prose pieces, represented in this selection by
"The Fleas" written in Benghazi, Libya, where Ioannou lived for
two years as headmaster of the Greek gymnasium, the city he
writes about is Thessaloniki, the second largest city of Greece and
capital of Macedonia. This northern city, steeped in Byzantine
and Roman tradition, is more modern than Athens, and yet more
Balkan, more Turkish. The world of Ioannou, reflected in "The
Cells," "The Hens," "The Butchers" and "Lazarina" is not the
"Greek" world full of that Mediterranean elan most foreigners
know, but a withdrawn, introverted, suspicious world. His characters are cool to one another: why should they trust each other if
neither can trust himself? Ioannou, whose preoccupations may remind us of Kafka but are more like Cavafy's, concentrates on
human nature as he knows it, without illusions. Each of Ioannou's
prose-reflections is imbued with the bleak truths of a man who
has stopped lying to himself.
82
THE FLEAS
BY GEORGE IOANNOU
translated by Thomas Doulis
A good friend of mine once said that her first and last attempt
at love was ruined by fleas. She was vacationing somewhere and
had gone into an empty room, a place used for storage, with a
local boy. They quickly became aware, though, that many fleas
had lighted on their bodies and were passionately sucking their
blood. She and the boy had immediately stopped what they were
doing and from then on had difficulty getting together again
because each occasion brought a new obstacle.
I must admit that I don't understand this story very well.
I can't accept the possibility that fleas are able to interrupt a
person's first love encounter. It would take hundreds of fleas to
make themselves so annoying as to postpone such a moment.
I do not doubt that the fleas attacked but it's exactly that attack
and its results that cause me to doubt my friend.
Fleas will attack someone whose flesh is tender, whose skin
is delicate. This is true of most insects, particularly of fleas. I
have never heard rugged men complain about flea-bites, not because they hid the fact or considered it trivial and suffered it
without grumbling, but because they were simply not bitten. The
fleas that climb on them, I imagine, search everywhere, but are
unable to find skin s.oft or delicate enough to penetrate. The
blood, too, of such men-its smell, its taste-may differ. Anyhow,
they are unaware of fleas even when they relax, let alone when
they make love.
The larger truth, though, is that fleas prefer women. They're
the first to be annoyed when a place has fleas. Naturally, fleas
go for children, too; especially little girls, and make them red all
over. Among the men, those who complain most are the soft and
tender, usually bourgeois types or office workers, which fact is
not related to their softness. There are contradictory examples,
besides. Nevertheless, it is true that the more feminine-like a
person's flesh is, the more the fleas prefer it; sometimes, I can
83
84
THE CHARIOTEER
say, even more than that of a woman. Naturally, such people
feel the bites more. There are not a few who almost enjoy it,
particularly after the flea bites. But this certainly approaches
perversion.
At times the fleas' unerring preference indicates selectivity
both very serious and judicious, and that's why each incident
should be carefully studied. Usually, though, no one considers
it important. I believe, nevertheless, that this information alone
is sufficient to form a basic judgment about a man. If the facts
are true, there's no danger of making an error, even though the
man is a total stranger.
Of course, it's customary for fleas to attack the average person to some extent, selecting only certain parts of the body, parts
that for many reasons are unusually tender. This doesn't seem
unusual, nor should it give rise to doubt.
Sometimes I'm truly sorry for the almost complete absence of
fleas in large cities. A norm for judgment, and for me, personally, a pleasurable norm, is missing. In fact, it's highly amusing to
suddenly discover that fleas are furiously chasing many who for
years pretended to be above such problems. Who can know what
surprises we'd have? It's quite possible that they would even be
unable to understand or accept the significance; but I, who'd be
certain, would laugh; they wouldn't be able to fool me again.
Those who did understand the significance of flea bites would
conceal theirs. But there are always special opportunities for discovery; the important thing is to be patient.
There are fleas in villages, of course, but they don't dare bite
the peasants. In this matter, exceptions are rare. Quite frequently
they don't even approach women, particularly old maids. Thank
God for the summer residents and tourists. Besides, everyone
knows everyone else in villages and there's no reason to resort to
this means of classifying people. There is no danger that, were
fleas to disappear from the villages, their absence would lead to
confusion, as happens in the cities.
I remember that the North African movie theaters were full
of fleas. As soon as we entered we'd sense them swarming around
us. They didn't have the strength to bite into our flesh, which
had become baked; the most they could do would be to bite us at
our ankles, where the elastic of the stocking squeezes the skin and
The Fleas
85
draws the blood to the surface. In addition, the fleas of Africa
are slightly different from those in Greece. When you feel them
and hit them, they immediately burst because their bodies are
softer; whereas ours frequently jump away and escape even after
being slapped. The truth is that even our fleas are tender at the
beginning of their lives, in the spring, but they toughen up after
being punished by the weather. Often, although it's still cold
outside, young fleas begin to leap about in the peasant houses;
then it's clear that spring has definitely arrived. To get back,
I was always puzzled as to how so many fleas were nourished in
those African movie theaters since, of course, women never attend. Besides, most of the blacks are so baked from the sun, as a
rule, that it's doubtful if their soft fleas can possibly bite them.
I gradually figured out, though, that a substantial part of the
audience were Europeans, lily-white ones, as a matter of fact, who
never let a film-even the most insipid-be shown without seeing
it. It was they who nourished the fleas, plus a certain percentage
of the blacks, no doubt.
I think about all these things sometimes, when I'm alone, and
marvel at the struggle nature makes to show us the truth. But
what do we do? Our minds always rush to the vague and the unknown. We never look at anything nearby in order to understand the world and our weaknesses. We're always talking about
things that we neither know nor experience: about clouds, skies,
angels and other crap.
LAZA RINA
BY GEORGE IOANNO U
translated by Thomas Doulis
At Trikala I was told there was a witch in Lazarina who could
summon spirits at night, but I forgot her as soon as I arrived and
saw the rich pastureland. I was immediately drawn into meadows
on my way to the stud-farm, where I saw horses grazing according to sex and age. Finally, with shoes soaking wet, I leaned
against the rough wooden planks that served as fences and spent
most of the day, looking at one group. My joy quickly deepened
as I began discovering new details in their bodies or graceful
movements I had not noticed before. When I see such creatures,
it is impossible to condemn those who supposedly fall in love
with animals. Within myself I secretly justify them, making it a
point, of course, not to visualize certain scenes that would not
help me understand. Anyhow, I prefer such people to the others
with their cold-fish eyes who-1 think with horror- will carefully
examine a horse at their leisure, or study it after it is transported
and is galloping furiously at racetracks. The same despair seizes
me when I see young, well-built people carefree in their villages.
Who knows what traps have been set for them already and what
filthy hands are about to caress them when ambition or the nation
calls them to the evil capital city? All that beauty will be destroyed at the insane race track.
Ponies are well treated so as to be exploited later. Of course,
they are not burdened or beaten. They are allowed to graze on
the most tender grass and are fed the most nourishing fodder in
the stables. Few stallions have the chance to stay at the stud-farm
and enjoy their lives a bit. More mares will be staying, though.
That's natural, for a mare can give birth once a year, no matter
what.
A clip-board hangs outside every stable with the name of the
horse-f oreign, usually -its blood line, and the achievements on
the track of its offspring or its relatives. For some stallions the
list provides more specific details. Clearly, such horses, through
86
Lazarina
87
their feats, have won a lot of money. Now, they usually bite and
kick wildly.
It would have been better for me not to have observed such
immoralities; they ruined my enthusiasm. Everything is planned
and artificial. The powerful stallion mounts whichever mare he's
presented with. Chance or erotic selection plays no part in these
encounters. And it is quite possible that the beautiful objects
I marvelled at for many hours are empty, without courage and
warmth. What image must they have of themselves and the
world, I wonder?
A wave of emotion overwhelmed me in behalf of the common
horses, even the old nags. At least they are real and their souls,
no doubt, are stronger, having suffered so much.
Theoretically, though, even the race horses have some hopes
of escaping, as the gladiators did when the emperor was willing.
There's no hope for the sterile mules, though. They're blocked
up within themselves whatever they do, and condemned-in spite
of the grace they may receive-not to taste any of the common
joys. There are worse things, then, even within the world of the
horses. Many of them, it's said, feel erotic desires but don't have
the means to express them. Besides, the coupling of mules would
be considered a comic and even unpleasant thing. I suppose thick
clubs would start swinging if something like this were ever suspected. Since they're neither horses nor donkeys, and especially
since their mating can produce no results, what do they want with
love? Let them even do without caresses. Their job is to carry
heavy burdens without making noise. When someone mentions
mules, I automatically think of whippings and curses, but also of
the stubbornness and biting and kicking that send a hard master
to his grave.
Only in the army do the mules find some sort of love. The
muleteers, usually the most innocent and scorned of lads, often
pet them with their big paws. And the mules, which never knew
such sweetness in their lives, look at them seriously, with tears
welling in their eyes.
WESTMINSTER
BY GEORGE THEOTOK AS
translated by T bemi V asils
This all happened on a coach in the London tube one evening
when I was returning from the cinema with Sylvia.
I was tired and dispirited because I was not used to this climate
and this way of life. An invisible pincers was pressing my temples
incessantly. Sun! Sun! To recover, I needed the sun, pines, a deep
blue sea and a warm sandy beach-to feel the light and the etesian
wind of the Aegean on my brow. Sylvia suggested I take an aspirin
before going to bed, but I was too weary to run around in the foggy
night, looking for a pharmacy. We discussed the matter at length.
"I don't want any aspirin," I said finally. "I want to sleep."
"Do as you like!" Sylvia retorted.
She would always pronounce this statement with a wry look,
wrinkling her brows and obstinately puckering her lips, and then
she would lower her head and keep silent. But soon her charming
chatter would get the best of her and she would talk on and on,
never ending.
"Do you like horses?" she would ask without reason. "Oh,
I love horses very much. As much as I love dogs. I'd love to
marry a man who has a large estate in the country with many
horses and dogs. All thoroughbreds. I love country life very
much. I'd come to London once in a while to go to the cinema.
There are no cinemas in the country."
With every jolt of the train, everything tossed confusedly in
my mind, hazy, half erased, elusive and unreal. All things seemed
to merge-th e boundless overflow of houses, people, lights, machines, legends, the black river and the unfrequented parks, the
palaces, the ancient castles, the Gothic towers, the banks, the
marble, the gold, the coal-and above all, Nelson, unbending, indestructible and stony, guarding the Empire with clenched teethNelson on his pillar, like a taut bow in the grey sky of the haughty
island. We rolled through the bowels of London, locked in a
88
Westminster
89
shell-like thing. Oh, infinite, dreamlike city in the fog, teeming
with life.
"Where are we going, Sylvia? Where are we going?"
Our coach was crowded with silent passengers, open newspapers, wet umbrellas, cigarette smoke, muddy shoes. The harsh
electric lights bothered my eyes. I looked out the window, and
the darkness annoyed me.
"It's cold," Sylvia commented.
She covered her legs as far down as she could, tucked her hands
under her arms and snuggled close to me, shivering. Her face was
fresh, like a childhood dream. My glance found an ideal refuge in
the infinite blue of her eyes, and my heart quickened.
"I like you very much," I told her warmly.
"This is not the time," she responded seriously and looked
away.
But she seemed pleased.
I have neglected to say that across from us sat a man, a very
well bred man, in evening dress and top hat. He was exceptionally
gaunt, spare of body, just skin and bones. He had an umbrella
pressed between his legs, and he was continually caressing its
frame handle tenderly, as though it were a living thing. He would
look first to Sylvia, then at me with restless, sunken, bloodshot
eyes which gleamed in an unfathomable way. His appearance
and behavior did not appeal to me, though he resembled as I said,
a truly well bred person, but I avoided looking at him so as not
to encourage him.
When she noticed him and realized that he was observing us,
Sylvia reached toward my ear as if to tell me a secret.
"Do you know him?" she asked in a whisper.
I made a sign that I did not.
"I wonder," she continued in the same tone, "whether he might
be some kind of a lunatic."
To dispel her uneasiness, she nervously made a pretense at
laughing. Her forced laughter increased my anxiety. Suddenly
without knowing why, I felt a great need to forget where I was
and more so to forget the presence of that strange person across
from me.
"Sing something, please."
"You want me to sing?"
90
THE CHARIOTEER
My request seemed so absurd to her that her laughter was
stifled and she fixed a serious deep, look on me, as if trying to
reason what had come over me.
"This is not the place," she continued.
I insisted as gently as I could.
"You'll please me so," I said. "Sing something softly that no
one else can hear, just for me."
She did not want to. I insisted. Finally with a decisive movement of her eyes, she agreed to do this favor which I asked of
her. She leaned close to my ear again and softly hummed a simple
tune from an American students' operetta which we had seen together the previous week:
The stars belong to everyone
The flowers belong to everyone
And love belongs to everyone
The best things in life are free.
The gentle words, the simple rhythm of the song, poured into
me like a soothing balm. For a moment, I actually forgot what I
wanted to forget. I felt myself completely carefree, buoyant, full
of a joyous and comfortable sense of supreme elation. The world
was beautiful, pleasing and simple. And it was mine. I could
reach out my hand and could have whatever my heart desired. I
could reach out my other hand, and every care would disappear.
The best things in life are free. I was floating free, in the starlight in a warm, scented mythical pond, among a myriad of
ethereal nymph shadows, the sounds of an invisible flute gently
lulling my soul. Stars, flowers, Eros, the joy of the birds and the
insects, the ripple of life. A sweet shudder! Sylvia's cheek close
to mine, innocent, blooming, fresh as the first day God created.
Oh, joy of life!
A weird incident drew me from this reverie. The outer door
of the coach opened suddenly and an employee of the train came
into the compartment. Erect, impeccable in appearance with his
gold buttons, like all civil servants of Great Britain, he had a kind
of frenzied look, with bloodshot and glassy eyes, like those of the
stranger who was sitting across from me.
"Westminster!" he shouted. "Westminster! We're passing
under Westminster!"
Westminster
91
That same instant I felt the speed of the train increasing excessively. I jumped up.
"Why isn't it making a stop?" I asked.
But the conductor hurriedly closed the door and went away
without answering or even noticing me.
None of the passengers showed the slightest interest in all
that was going on. They remained in their same positions, with
the same expressions, and continued reading their newspapers or
looking down with blank stares. Only the stranger in evening
dress smiled mockingly, observing my anxiety; his eyes sparkled
so brightly I was compelled to close mine for a moment, unable
to bear their blinding effect. I could feel the skin on my face
shrivelling and a chill drenching me.
"We're passing under Westminster," Sylvia chanted softly.
"But why didn't they make the stop?" I asked again in a tired
voice.
"We aren't making any stops," hissed the stranger.
His hissing coiled around me like a snake. My body went limp,
incapable of the slightest movement, and I breathed with difficulty.
I was smothering. Westminster, terrifying Westminster, blanketed
us, was burying us in its dark stone, sealing off every exit and even
the air.
"Where are we going, Sylvia? Where are we going?"
But she, not having heard the hissing of the stranger, nor even
my voice, mechanically removed her cap, rested her head on my
shoulder and closed her eyes. Her hair, fair and shining like corn
in the noonday sun, flowed on my cheek and gently caressed me.
"The stars belong to everyone," she murmured for the last
time.
I heard her rhythmic breathing. A blissful smile was on her
half opened lips. Her fresh young soul was already floating in
the infinite, blue fields of girlish dreams.
I also closed my eyes without looking again at the stranger. I
felt that only he knew what was happening. But I did not have
the nerve to ask him. I did not have the strength, at that moment,
to meet his eyes again. Again I struggled to forget.
The train was racing now with demonic speed through the
darkness of the tunnels. I abandoned myself without any physical
resistance to the crazy rhythm of the locomotive, bruised all over
92
THE CHARIOTEER
from its continuous jostling. My head was throbbing. I could no
longer see anything in my imagination but frenzied bars beating
about in the blackness and whirling all around me like a waterfalL An unbridled current of metal pulled violently at me, making me weary and impotent. The same wild shout awakened me:
"Westminster! We're again passing under Westminster!"
I managed for a moment to see the wild face of the conductor
who immediately closed the door and again went away. The
The bleary eyes of the stranger in evening dress continued to gleam
with the same force. I achingly mustered my dissolving strength
and spoke to him for the first time.
"Sir," I stammered in a faint voice. "Sir, whoever you areI beg you, please-tell me, what is the meaning of all this?"
"Don't you know what happened?" asked the stranger in a
commonplace tone as though we were speaking about the most
ordinary matters. (His eyes at once had become human, almost
obliging.) 'Til tell you. All the train's employees have gone berserk and they don't want to make any stops anymore. That's the
way it is."
I was, evidently, prepared to hear the most preposterous things;
so this information did oot impress me as it would have under
different circumstances. Besides I was so exhausted that I did not
have the strength to seek the assistance of my logic. I tried, nevertheless, to continue the conversation, hoping to learn something
more.
"How did it happen that they all went berserk together?" I
asked again.
"Who koows! Perhaps they were drugged."
"By whom?"
"I imagine someone who wanted to have a little fun."
We were silent a few moments.
"I wasn't aware, sir," I murmured, for lack of another reply,
"that there were drinks, powders or pills or other similar things,
which could be swallowed by train employees to cause their all
going berserk at the same time and refusing to make any stops."
"And, I, too, am not certain," he replied. "I said it just to give
a sort of explanation."
He looked at me imperturbably with a gentle smile of ironic
indulgence.
Westminster
93
"At least tell me, I beg of you," I continued; "why do they
shout at intervals that we are passing under Westminster?"
"We are continuously circling under London," said the stranger, "and they've marked Westminster so they will know how
long it takes them to complete the circle. That's why they shout.
You see, even lunatics have their logic."
Then I suddenly noticed that we were alone in the coach-the
stranger, the sleeping Sylvia and I. The other passengers had
vanished without a trace of their presence. They had evaporated
like smoke. I shuddered so violently that my whole body was
jolted and I sensed my eyes straining, bulging from their sockets.
In my throat a great cry of horror was rising, unable to reach
my lips; it stirred my entrails, gripped me, almost strangled me.
"Where are the others?" I whispered at last with trembling
lips. "The others, sir, the others?"
"They are no more," he said.
I leaned my head over Sylvia's hair, indisputably defeated. I
heard her breathing evenly again and felt her heart beating calmly
and softly close to mine. Her beauty, her carefree childishness,
the unsullied, soundness of her body, for a moment again warmed
the blood in my veins. A small, fleeting memory of joy fluttered
through my thoughts. A wave of tenderness and sympathy overwhelmed me, and two tears trickled down my cheeks.
"Let's not awaken her!" I begged the stranger. "Let her sleep
so she won't understand ever-ever-'because if she understands,
she will be terrified."
"There is no need to frighten her," he said.
His eyes shone again with the same intensity, but this time I
did not close mine. I continued to stare at him, captivated, mesmerized, unable to turn my glance elsewhere. His nails suddenly
began to lengthen abnormally, and a reddish reptile without a
head, like a long pig's tail, emerged between his legs. His ears
became pointed.
I observed these sudden changes in his appearance with moribund resoluteness and with a kind of frozen admiration.
I whispered, "Could you be . . . ?"
But I dared not utter the terrible name.
"1t's not important," he said.
94
THE CHARIOTEER
''I'm honored, Your Highness," I murmured. "Truly, I'm
honored."
Then, I think the electric lights went off and we were in
darkness. The fatal voice resounded again in the night, "Westminster! Westminster!"
But I no longer cared about anything.
"You see, they're not making the stop," hissed the stranger
for the final time. "I told you, there is no stop."
I did not care.
I surrendered my soul to the violent jolting of the locomotive
and to the infinite traction of the tunnels and forgot myself there,
aware only of Sylvia's hair on my cheek and of my eyes fixed on
the gleaming eyes of the stranger, the only lights in the darkness.
The late GEORGE THEOTOKAS, born in Constantinople in 1906, was educated in Athens, Paris and London. His first book, Free Spirit, was an ideological,
polemic work which some critics described as "the manifesto of the generation of
the thirties." He wrote more fiction, plays, travel impressions, and essays on intellectual and socially relevant topics. His works have been translated into many
languages. In 1939 he received the Prose Award of the Academy of Athens; in
1957, the National Essay Award of Greece, and in 1965 the National Fiction
Award of Greece. He died suddenly on October 30, 1966. "Westminster" is from
his book of short stories Evripidis Pentozalis.
REVIEW OF BOOKS
NASoS VAYENAS.
mata 1970-74).
1974. 32 pages.
Pedhion Areos (PiiAthens. Dhioyenis.
The Field of Ares, Vayenas' first
book of poetry, expressed the mood of
the young intellectual living under the
Papadopoulos regime. The nineteen
poems of this work are characterized by
images of suffering. The titles of the
sections in which the poems are grouped
(Death at Exarhia-a district of the
city of Athens, and The Field of Ares)
as well as the titles of individual poems,
reveal a world of war and death,
peopled by personages who no longer
resemble their former selves. The theme
of death even conditions the poet's definition of poetry. Poems in "The Poet's
Sleep" are like the dead who cry out at
night for liberation. Arriving each evening as his love dressed in black, death
clings to the poet's skin. Like the
woman in the poet's arms, contemporary Greece seeks death; for as Vayenas
says in "Country," how can a nation
betrayed by its queen win the confidence of its people?
At times Vayenas tries to express in
short lyrics, such as "The Trees," the
love and warmth lacking in his world
which he finds in nature. But" death is
present here, too. Clouds are like cotton on a wound ("Saturday") and the
sky becomes a grass-covered grave
("Field of Ares"). The sensitivity of
a youthful mind glows in the lines of
Vayenas.
KOSTAS MYRSIADIS
West Chester State College
CoST.IIS
~MoURSEL.IIS,
Seltfted Short
Plays. Translatecl by Andrew Horton.
Anglo-Hellenic Publishing,
1975. 127 pages, paperback.
Athens,
Andrew Horton, currently assistant
professor of English and cinema at
Deree College in Athens, has for the
past decade been interested in contemporary Greek drama, especially in
Athens where there are about 40 theatres. Dr. Horton judges the work of
Costas Mourselas among the best of the
new Greek dramatists. In the land
where the drama was born for Western
civilization and where some of the
greatest dramas were written, the contemporary Greek playwright faces a
particularly difficult and challenging
task. Mourselas, who was born in
Pireaus, grew up in Athens, completed
his law degree at the University of
Athens and, after service in the Greek
army, worked as a government employee
until 1969. He now devotes his full
time to writing. His avowed aim is "to
write a popular work in an anti-popular way."
Professor Horton, in an attractive
volume, has crisply translated a selection of representative plays by Costas
Mourselas. Included are "Bus Stop,"
"The Egg," "ID Card," "The Stamp"
and "The Wheel'' from his highly successful TV series as well as "This One
and ... That One" and "The Lady
Doesn't Mourn" ("The Elevator").
Mourselas is concerned with 20th century . urban technological life. In his
introduction to Selected Short Plays Dr.
Horton describes him as a leading figure in the contemporary Greek theatre
because "he has unswervingly focused
on the plight of the individual today
who desires and needs personal freedom but who finds himself enmeshed
in a complex social web he cannot hope
95
96
to change or control" (p. 14). Mourselas's characters, though aware of being trapped, begin to be free and to
find hope for change. Basically a humanist; Mourselas presents modern fear
and anxiety on a comprehensible scale
through his characters Solon and Luke.
His work is characterized by a classical
austerity and a warm sense of humor
but reflects vision of reality which is a
clearly modern mixture of tragicomedy
and satire.
Remarkably successful on Greek television, for which he has written almost
80 shows, Mourselas with genuine human compassion, portrays memorable
ideas and scenes and, in Horton's words,
"touches us deeply because we, too,
know that life is a mixture of tears and
laughter and that in an unjust and often
insane world, compassion is necessary
if we are to maintain our humanity"
(p. 18).
Andrew Horton has served modern
Greek drama well by translating into
English the works of a highly provocative dramatist. His selections from the
author's more than 12 full-length
dramas, 80 one-act sketches and several
film scripts makes a fine introduction
to the theatre of contemporary Athens.
JoHN E. REXINE
Colgate University
CosTAS MouRSELAS. The Ear of .Alexander. Translated by Mary A. Nickles.
Athens,
AnglocHellenic Publishing,
1976. Pp. xii 74. Paperback.
Coming as it does on the heels of
the publication of Costas Mourselas's
Selected Short Plays (translated by Andrew Horton, Athens, 1975), The Ear
of Alexander crisply translated by Dr.
Mary Nickles (Department of English,
State Univetsity of New York at New
Paltz; Visiting Professor at Deree College in Athens, i974-75) adds welcome
impetus to the growing interest among
English-speaking readers in a Greek
THE CHARIOTEER
dramatist who depicts the contemporary
scene with a classical simplicity, even
_austerity. Mourselas is a master of
satire and comedy, who makes his point
without moralizing and with telling impact. In The Ear of Alexander the contemporary urban citizen's idolatry of
materialism is subjected to intense dramatic questioning through a tragicomedy about a couple, Alexander and
Aspasia, who interact with each other
and others, in a way that reflects Mourselas's coming to grips with the theme
of man's devouring man. Alexander,
on the verge of bankruptcy, hires an
arsonist, Joseph, to destroy his warehouses after emptying them of any
valuable contents; Joseph does not carry
out the operation when he sees that a
human being, the watchman, will be
consumed in the flames. Aspasia discovers that her husband is a ruthless
manipulator of men, but as the play
proceeds, she, too, is revealed as his
equal. Her bestiality inevitably reminds
the reader of Greek drama of Euripides's Bacchae, in which Euripides warns
us all of the bestiality that exists within
all human beings and that is symbolized
by the deceivingly gentle god Dionysus. Aspasia's cannibalism culminates
in her uncontrollable desire to nibble
Alexander's ear. "The 'ear' of Alexander is neither an ear for hearing, nor
an ear for playful nibbling; it is an ear
for eating," in the words of Dr. Nickles
(p. vii). Aspasia is explicitly described
as the embodiment of cannibalism, and
transformed from human being to beast.
Alexander is willing to sell his wife
to his chief creditor, Aristides, to gain
an extension of a much-needed loan.
Aspasia is willing to sell Alexander to
the devil (The Man in Black= Charon)
for money and sex.
The play is simple, straightforward,
and rich in its implications. The classical names (Alexander, Aspasia, Ari·
stides) recall the original historical personages who contrast to their· modern
counterparts. Apostolos recalls the
Christian apostles and the Man · in
Review of Books
97
Black, Charon. This variation on the
Mephistopheles theme shows a powerful merging of classical and Christian
elements.
A contemporary Greek playwright in
a popular two-act play castigates the
greed and inhumanity that modern society fosters. In a ''dog eat dog" world
that places so much value on material
success, Costas Mourselas condemns human greed and bemoans the loss of
humanity among human beings. Dr.
Nickles puts it well when she says,
"There is no direct exhortation in the
play; its moral purpose is achieved
through an array of monomaniacs devoured by avarice and ready to commit
the grossest acts to satisfy it, arousing
in the audience a vehement repudiation
of unchecked animal instincts" (p. i).
In his own way, Mourselas is determined to remind us that a human
being's most important possession is his
humanity. This is a very Greek theme;
for the Greeks first taught the world
the significance of humanity. Mourselas mercilessly condemns the human
exploitation of human beings and castigates those who would manipulate
their fellow man for personal material
gain or sexual gratification. He asks
whether such a world is not deranged
and must be brought to its senses. Like
Euripides, he insists that the bestial in
man must be subjugated if it is not to
devour · us all.
]OHN
E.
REXINE
Colgate University
WEINSTJ!IN, Let Us B6
Greek: Poems and Notes on a People's
Struggle. Foreword by George Mylonas. Dorrance and Company, Philadelphia, 1975. Pp. xv
134. Hardcover.
$4.95.
NoRMAN
+
Greece is ·very old.
Greece is also very significant
Because it is both place and idea:
Here they are one.
The above lines, from the author's
poem "The Old Men of Greece" (p.
84), clearly declare the importance of
Greece for Norman Weinstein, a native
of Roanoke, Virginia. Weinstein taught
at Athens College from 1966-1968,
when he began writing Let Us Be
Greek in Greece, left Greece in 1968
for three years in France, and completed his book in the United States.
He is a philhellene who witnessed the
"tragedy, injustice, pain" that characterized much of the regime of the military
junta that ruled Greece from 1967 to
1974 under Colonel George Papadopoulos. In his own way, Weinstein joined
with other resistance forces to work for
the restoration of democracy in the land
that he knew and loved so much. The
four-part cycle of thirty-seven poems
and the explanatory notes are a poetic
record of the background of the struggle
and the hopes of the Greek people for
their political freedom.
Let Us Be Greek begins with an
appreciation of the author's work by
the former member of the Greek Parliament, Secretary of State to the Prime
Minister, and Education Minister
George Mylonas. The author's introduction provides necessary background
for understanding the poems; the ample
notes at the end of the book (pp. 109134) clarify particular references in individual poems. The four parts of the
book are "Forbidden Fire," "Greeks Go
Everywhere," "Against the Silence of
an Unjust Night" and "Let Us Be
Greek." The Epilogue emphasizes the
Greek commitment to justice, freedom,
and aspiration.
The author's own words explain the
purpose of this volume: "To provide
through poems and notes some feeling
for the harsh experience of a small but
historic nation. It is an incomplete and
informal examination this side of the
headlines and the statistics. Through
dynamic and passive resistance, through
contemptuous indifference, Greeks refused to accept their grotesque subjugation. Hopefully this book will help
98
to preserve something of their suffering
and their response, neither of which
should be readily forgotten, for they
can serve as a tribute and as warning"
(p. ix).
Norman Weinstein's poetic record is
a tribute to that freedom which was
first born in Greece and which he views
as her most precious heritage and gift
to the world. He sees the need to preserve that freedom not only in Greece
now but also at all times and in all
places, for he recognizes the Greekness
that is involved in resisting tyranny, no
matter how hopeless the struggle may
seem:
"Resist? Struggle?"
My God, man, to be Greek is
to resist:
It's our history and our sorrow
and our glory,
Our condition and our character
for better and for worse.
No wonder you don't see or hear
our dance
If you must ask, "Do you resist?"
(Karaiskakis, Dance with Me, p. 99)
Greeks have resisted tyranny throughout the ages and have at times suffered
oppression for cruel and lonely centuries. Let Us Be Greek reminds us that
freedom is not easily won and must be
carefully nourished, cultivated and
cherished if it is to be preserved, and
that in this matter, Greeks have a special historical responsibility from which
there can be rto shirking.
JoHN E. REXINE
Colgate University
E. C. KAsDHAGLIS. Emvolima. Athens,
1975. 110 pages.
Mr. Kasdhaglis is known in Greek
literary circles for the finesse with
which he has supervised the publications of others. Now, he comes out as
a creative author in his own right.
THE CHARIOTEER
Emvolima ("Interpolations"), a handsome volume of 110 pages, with a
frontispiece by G. Varlamos, reveals
Kasdhaglis as a sensitive and articulate
poet.
The poems which were written between 1970 and 1975, a dramatic period
in recent Greek history (years of the
junta, of tragedy in Cyprus, and the
return of democracy in Greece), reflect
inner and outer pressures on the poet.
These poems had to be written, to be
interpolated, so to speak, into the
manuscript of the poet's life. Kasdhaglis quotes the Aeschylean epigraph
from the Prometheus Vinctus: "For the
echo of the clang of iron reached the
inmost recess of my cave and aroused
my grave modesty." The sour, the
ironic or sad verses of Emvolima have,
on the whole, a social reference but are
expressed through a personal voice
which initially laments a personal loss,
the death of the poet's mother:
Gone you are and I am left like
a child
his hands on a broken toy
which he can't play but doesn't
want to discard either
a photo with a still clear smile
with these meagre words
pebbles in the river of time
to fill it up and join the banks
now kept apart
by the water of Lethe.
(Mother)
Most of the poems draw their tension from the peculiar situation in
which the poet finds himself, caught
between the silence of a brutal state
and the vacuous slogans of its opposition. Speech is not easy in such circumstances. The "word" is too precious; it must be kept secret, warmed
by a spark of Promethean fire while
the outside world washes up copies of
the "rising goddess" Venus, cheap
copies that infect the light of the day:
It is the light, not us; we are the
victims
in the mercy of the surgeon or
the butcher
Review of Books
naked, our heads adorned with beads
and flowers
saying farewell to the guilty light.
(In the Light)
The second part of the book, "Mythology,'' examines the present through
parallels and parables from the past.
The contemporary Theseus notices that
the real Labyrinth starts when he has
rolled up the ball of Ariadne's thread.
"Epitaphs'' commemorates named and
unnamed dead with whom the poet
shares a secret bond of sympathy;
''Exorcisms and Games" catches, in
brief, mostly rhymed, poems, the spirit
of denial, nostalgia and hope that runs
through the whole book. "Timely
Poems" follows "Untimely Poems," and
a full circle has been made. The poet's
search for light in a world of varying
shades of darkness, reaffirms an essential truth:
vour freedom cannot break loose
99
from a paper sheet of a given size;
for even this has lines
and margins right and leftdon't hope to transcend them.
Write the few words that fit in there,
and if you truly want to be free,
tear the paper to a thousand pieces
and scatter them to the four winds.
(Freedom)
But the application of this truth,
means, ultimately, death, the nonexistence of the Kazantzakian epitaph:
"I fear nothing, I hope for nothing,
I am free," or at least, a death-in-life,
a complete silence. Human speech,
however, in whatever circumstances, is
preferable to the silence of the grave or
of a still life. We are happy that Kasdhaglis has not scattered the torn pieces
of his poems to the winds but has let
us see them in print.
GEORGE THANIEL
University of Toronto
A BRIEF SURVEY OF NEW BOOKS
1. In Ikostos ke Alli Eones ("The
Twent ieth and Other Centur ies")
(Athens, 1974) , his second book of
poetry, John Kapsalis, of Framingham,
Mass., is inspired mainly by the unusual or the amusing (Disneyland's
dancing skeletons, a bunch of blond
amazons astride the stools of a coffeeshop that remind him of a painting by
Theophilos, the statues of Lincoln and
Colocotronis, Volcanic Santorini) or
the paradoxes of our modern world
such as a stereophonic record. The
poems are straightforward descriptive
vignettes with a minimum of comment.
The tone is ironic or playful.
2. I Ephialtes ("The Nightm ares")
(Athens, 1974) of Andreas Angelakis
is a predictable sequel to the writer's
previous publication, To Pion ("The
Pus" ) . By his diction and imagery
Angelakis wants to impress and even
shock. His poetry, sincere and convincing oscillates between tenderness
and surrender, disillusionment and anguish bordering sometimes on hysteria:
a self-flagellating lyricism with some
moments of beauty and occasional
touches of the sublime.
3. Manolis Mihalakis's Ghramma sti
Mana mou ("Lett er to my Mothe r")
(Athens, 1975 ), a novel of more than
four hundred pages, is made more
poignant by the fact that it is addressed
by some friend of the writer to his
dead mothe r-the friend is also dead
by the time the writer discovers and
publishes the manuscript of the letter.
It is a plaintive story, in the realistic
manner, of a young man who cannot
find proper employment, is almost constantly wounded in his self-pride and
becomes, as a consequence, bitter and
cynical. Underneath the utterances of
100
a mature adult we keep hearing the
cries of a hurt child. What might have
been monotonous is saved by Mihalakis's story-telling ability, by his keen
sense of humor and a deep-seated, indestructible humanity.
4. I Parakamptirios ("The Side
Pass") (Thessaloniki, 1975) is the
third book of short stories by Sakis
Papadhimitriou, translated into French
as La Deviation. The stories, in the
first person and in simple, well-controlled language, explore aspects of urban life: technology's monster encroaching on the basic needs of the individual;
the increasingly absurd qualifications
for employment, the impersonality of
airports, the complexities of emotional
relationships, the mystery of sex. Papadhimitriou, who is also an expert on
modern music, writes well and the confessional style of his stories never lapses
to abstractions or ambiguities.
5. Ghrighoris Dhipla ris has his own
sense of the absurd:
What is the use of feathering the
birds
windin g the alarm-clocks
putting gas in the cars
since
all things
go
by themselves?
In his second book of poetry, Arkadhika ke Stighmika ("Poems of Arcadia and of the Mome nt") (Athens,
1975 ), Dhipla ris displays a remarkable
imagination and a self-torturing identity. He is not the usual angry young
man who is accommodated in time but
the man whose sense of life is tragic,
an outsider who knows he can never give
himself to life with the thoughtlessness
or bestiality of hoi polloi. His weak
A Brief Survey of New Books
and at the same time strong disposition
bears its best fruit in poetry.
6. Loukas Theodhorakopoulos, a poet
of increasing simplicity and directness,
and author of an anti-novel, Rtzndevou
me ton Pirgho lou Aifel, has produced
this time a documentary with a highlyallusive title, 0 Keadhas ("'The Kaeada"-a chasm or underground cavern
at ancient Sparta, into which statecriminals were thrown). The story is
a serious and readable account of the
absurdly moralistic and hypocritical
attitudes of the colonels' regime during
the recent history of Greece. A group
of people, among whom the writer
found himself by coincidence, are arrested, degraded and see their names
published in the newspapers, not for
having done anything wrong but on the
simple suspicion that they might indulge in hom.osexual orgies. Theodhorakopoulos does not sentimentalize; his
aim is to give the facts of the case, so
101
that 0 Keadhas comes out as a frighteningly true and quite suspenseful
book.
1. En Arhi in to Midhen ("In the
Beginning was Nothingness") (Athens,
1976) of Takis Antoniou, is a hardbound and well-printed volume of
poems in three sections and an epilogue of three more poems as well as
a set of notes which explain, mainly,
the strongly idiomatic (rustic and
slang) diction of the poetry. The tone
is ironic and at times sarcastic. Anto·
niou attacks the mores of the society
which raised, promoted but also used
him. Many of the verses are sharp and
to the point; others are tiresome and
some are clearly in bad taste. The book
is charged with aggressive feeling and
an unusual vocabulary, but it is these
elements again which give the poems of
Antoniou their own kind of strength.
GEORGE THANIEL
University of Toronto
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308 OEA(5Ec; - $15.00
r pO:tjJE'rE :
CENTER FOR NEO-HELLENIC STUDmS
1010 West 22nd Street • Austin, TX 78705
Mr. Spanias's volume ... is a testimony to the
inner reaction-the sense of discovery and aweof a sensitive, talented, and artistic person evoked
by the lyrical vibrations of his peers ... Translated
with the talent of a true· poet, and the linguistic precision of a perfectly bilingual and seasoned writer, Nikos Spanias's anthology is an
original and valuable addition to books of its kind in English.
M. BYRON RAIZis, Greek World
RESISTANCE,
EXILE AND LOVE
An anthology of 18 post-war Greek
poets translated and edited
by
NIKOS SPANIAS
Nikos Spanias's selections and translations are both intelligent and
interesting. Comparing his translations to the originals of over a dozen
poems, his ability to capture the flow, the rhythms, the diction and
the spirit of the often difficult Greek is impressive. It is also commendable that he chose poets who, for the most part, have not been
translated into English before now, and it is even more commendable
that he proves with this book that they deserved to be translated
long ago.
MINAS SAVVAS, The Hellenic Journal
Spanias believes in Pound's idea that translation is or that it should
be a recreation of the original ... the poems of Resistance, Exile and
Love are readable and often inspired versions (particularly in cases
where the originals are in a colloquial or slang idiom) of a goodly
selection of more than eighty poems from the first post-war generation
of Greek poets.
GEORGE THANIEL, Orthodox Observer
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IN THE CURRENT ISSUE:
The Greek Labor Movement and the Bourgeois State, 1910-1920
by GEORGE B. LEON
The Latin American Agro-Tran.rformation and its Social and
Political Implications
by }AMES F. PETRAS
The Poetry of Alexis Lykiard
A Draft Treaty Between Greece and the United States on
Multinational Corporate Bribery
by DIMITRIS C. CoNSTAS
Also in this issue, book reviews by:
LAWRENCE 5. WITTNER; PASCHALIS M. KITR.OMILIDES; PETER PAPPAS;
THEODORE C. KARIOTIS; GEORGE VALAMVANOS; MARIOS L. EVRIVIADES.
FORTHCOMING IN THE SPRING ISSUE OF THE JoURNAL:
CONSTANTINE TSOUCAtAS on political clientalism in Greece
KIMON FRIAR on translating Cavafy
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No.3
Excerpts from Pope Joan by Emmanuel Roidis
Poetry by Takis Papatsonis and I. M. Panayotopoulos
Sculpture by Michael Tombros
No.4
Excerpts of Novels and a Play by Angelos Terzakis
Seven short stories by six pioneers/Paintings by Spyros Vassiliou
No.5
Excerpts of Novels and a Play by George Theotokas
Greek Castles- Essays and Paintings by Photis Kontoglou
Greek Demotic Songs
No.6
Poems by George Seferis
Excerpts of Novels by Thanassis Petsalis
Philoc:tetes, A Modern Version, by David Posner
7/8, Double Issue
An Anthology of Cypriot Poetry, Prose and Art
No.9
A selection of Poems by George Seferis
Excerpts from Smugglers of the Aegean by Yannis Manglis
Sculpture by Christos Kapralos
No. 10
Thirteen Poets of Salonika/The Art of Jannis Spyropoulos
Cavafy's Ars Poetic:a
Nos. 11/12, Double Issue
An Anthology of Kosmas Politis/The Sculpture of Ikaris
No. 13
An Anthology of Antonis Samarakis
No. 14
Hours of Life, a nouvelle by Ange Vlachos
A short story by Andreas Karkavitsas
Selections from seven Greek poets
No. 15
Greek Poems of the '40s and '50s
A short story by T. Pittas/The Sculpture of Natalia
Nos. 16/17, Double Issue
An Anthology of Pandelis Prevelakis
The Art of Y annis Kefallinos
No. 18
Takis Papatsonis' Ursa Minor; the sculpture of Michael Lekakis; a
short story by Spiros Plaskovitis.
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